tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23067565071817504002017-10-28T23:53:50.711-07:00The Cathartic BlendCathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-74869853885850333852017-10-24T04:00:00.000-07:002017-10-24T04:05:47.332-07:00When You Come Back Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ojx4MewFFLU/WewjrOUdpkI/AAAAAAAAgT0/hNUMp86rny4noQE039fRw-VK-IOD_Ee0wCLcBGAs/s1600/fullsizeoutput_16af.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ojx4MewFFLU/WewjrOUdpkI/AAAAAAAAgT0/hNUMp86rny4noQE039fRw-VK-IOD_Ee0wCLcBGAs/s1600/fullsizeoutput_16af.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><i>I'll be on the other end</i><br /><i>to hear you when you call,</i><br /><i>angel you were born to fly</i><br /><i>and if you get too high</i><br /><i>I'll catch you when you fall&nbsp;</i><br /><i>I'll catch you when you fall</i><br /><i>~Nickel Creek</i><br /><i><br /></i>I had the opportunity to help chaperone Zoe's class field trip to the local fire station the other day.<br /><br />Confession: I might have been more excited than she was about this opportunity. She wasn't embarrassed that I was coming or anything, as I imagine she will be in another five years. It's just that in the last month or so I'd been trying to find my way into her classroom without edging into helicopter parent land, and this opportunity finally struck. As soon as that note came home with a call for chaperones, I had it filled out and returned to her backpack within seconds.<br /><br />It's a strange adjustment to go from having tabs on exactly what one's child is doing 24/7 to suddenly having thirty hours per week that are something of a black hole. I mean, I know <i>generally</i>&nbsp;what she is up to: learning to write ABCs, twice per day recesses, lunch at 11 a.m., the occasional birthday party for a classmate. I soak up everything my daughter is willing to tell me about how those thirty hours are filled, and then I ask even more about it. <i>Which friends did you play with? What letters did you learn today? Which books did your teacher read today? Were there any students missing today? What was something particularly kind that you saw happen? Was anyone doing anything unkind?</i><br /><i></i><br /><i></i><br /><a name='more'></a><br />The morning of the field trip came, and with it the realization that I'd need to be ready to leave the house by 8:15 a.m. Mark walked Zoe to school, giving me a few extra minutes to get ready. In a flurry of showering, hair styling, dressing, coffee drinking, potty going and goodbye kissing as he returned and I left him to take Joel to preschool, I raced out the door and, with Phoebe strapped to my chest, arrived with just enough time to meet a few other parent chaperones waiting outside the classroom. I chatted with Adrian's mom who had her toddler in a stroller - we often see each other at pick up time. We're both new to this kindergarten world. I introduced myself to Britney's mom and I found out that her older child had this teacher before and loved her. "She makes the kids work hard, but it's good for them," she said.<br /><br /><i>I'm not too concerned about how much work they do at this point</i>, I think to myself, <i>but I really want to know that my daughter is making friends. I want her to </i>like<i>&nbsp;school and learning, but I want her to </i>love <i>making friends.&nbsp;</i><br /><i><br /></i>There were at least seven other parent chaperones, but I didn't have time to meet them all before Zoe's teacher, smiling, popped out from the classroom and invited us in.<br /><br />Like a herd of somewhat nervous sheep, we shuffled inside the classroom and stood facing the students who were seated on the floor. My eyes searched for Zoe's, and we smiled when we spied each other.<br /><br />"Ok, students - these are our parent chaperones who will be going with us today," said the teacher. She started naming us so we could wave to introduce ourselves: Adrian's mom, Britney's mom, Elliot's dad...Zoe's mom. Five years and counting, and I'm still a little floored that one of my titles is "Zoe's mom". I smiled and waved my hand just slightly.<br /><br />"Ok, if you have a parent here, why don't you go and stand next to them," said the teacher.<br /><br />Zoe's hair swung back and forth as she jumped up and race-walked over to me, excited to get close enough to tug at Phoebe's leg. I smiled again and rubbed her head, shushing her as her teacher assigned the remaining students to a chaperone. Alison came to join us, and we headed out the door following the groups in front of us.<br /><br />It was a walking field trip, so we set out on the sidewalk along a busy street. I took the outside edge, and Alison walked in between me and Zoe. Unsurprisingly, Zoe chatted away with Alison and other surrounding classmates as we walked. It was a golden opportunity for eavesdropping, and I was so focused on trying to listen in on their conversation over the noise of cars driving by that I only noticed the bus sign in front of Zoe in the split second before I watched her walk smack dab into it.<br /><br />She bounced back in shock and there were slight gasps all around from parents and classmates alike as we paused. I caught her eyes, which were starting to water, and furrowed my brow with concern.<br /><br />"Are you o--" I started, echoing several voices around me.<br /><br />I was cut off by a glare I had <i style="font-weight: bold;">never </i>seen from her, a silent stare-down that made it clear: the only thing that would have been more embarrassing for her in that moment would have been for her mom to draw attention to the fact that she got a little bumped, a little bruised, and might need a little TLC. <i>How embarrassing.&nbsp;</i><br /><i><br /></i>I choked that question back into my throat as she swallowed her own tears; I pretended I hadn't seen anything, she pretended nothing happened, or at least that she wasn't hurt by it. I tugged at Alison's hand to get us moving again, before the spectacle of it all might have begun to be too much for Zoe.<br /><br />Within seconds, she had once again become her talkative, zesty self, forgetting the bump and the gasps. We made it to the fire station, the kids were enamored with the trucks and gear and volume of the sirens. By the time we returned to the classroom, I was sure Zoe had forgotten all about the incident, and I made sure not to bring it up again.<br /><br />But her stare stayed with me.<br /><br />I called Mark to share it with him. We laughed together over the phone; though he hadn't seen the stare, he could imagine it. In less than eight years, she'll be shooting us the teenaged version of that stare. I know that had we been at home, or been alone when she walked into that bus sign, she wouldn't have hesitated to run to me for comfort, or at least allow me to come to her.<br /><br />But somewhere between the delivery room and the classroom, she has begun to learn to let go, even to push away. It's the path that has been set in motion ever since her eyes met mine as she was laid on my chest on that hot October evening. She took her first breath after a push from deep within me; somehow even the laws of physics demand an equal and opposite push back.<br /><br />I've been thinking much lately, through various circumstances, about how little control I have over her life. Influence, yes. So much incredible influence. But control? I still like to think that I have some control, but what I tend to think of as control is just a very heavy amount of influence. I <i>almost</i>&nbsp;had the chance to keep her from bumping into that bus stop sign, but the fact that I wasn't able to in time reminded me that I've never been able to protect her from every bump, scrape, bruise and hurt, self-inflicted or not.<br /><br />What I can do is teach her to look up. I can teach her to anticipate proverbial (and literal) roadblocks, not to be surprised by them. But most of all, I hope to help her look for the One who promises to be with her as she approaches them, is knocked down by them, and chooses to move forward despite them. May his joy be her strength, and may she not push him away.Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-15571561826512013392017-10-01T21:59:00.004-07:002017-10-18T15:54:12.252-07:00It Doesn't Have to Be This<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YaxRZG_qozs/WW6fzyNC_BI/AAAAAAAAgOE/6kpTs9_QPbQiUSy_Yq4n7bjI9ztciaOTQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4307.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YaxRZG_qozs/WW6fzyNC_BI/AAAAAAAAgOE/6kpTs9_QPbQiUSy_Yq4n7bjI9ztciaOTQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4307.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It's 7:39 am, which is not that early in the grand scheme of things. In some interesting twist of the clock, my older children chose to sleep in just a little later than usual.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The baby was up at 4 o'clock for her morning feed, but she is the easiest kid on my radar these days. Eat, poop, coo, snuggle, sleep and start the cycle over. This third iteration of motherhood means that I have babies down to something of a loose science, an expected rhythm.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's her four-and- a-half year old sister, struggling with jealousy and growing pains, and her two-and- a-half year old brother, learning to use the potty on his own, who leave me and my husband spent. The unpredictable extra bit of sleep they need in the morning is generally welcome; one less minute in which our minds are engaged in anticipating the next fire that may need to be put out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But of course today, as Murphy's Law would have it, we actually have some plans which will require our eyes to fixate on the clock a little more than usual. Early rising may actually have been helpful so as to avoid the ticking time bomb known as <i>rushing your kids out the door</i>.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><a name='more'></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Once they’re up I hurriedly pour Cheerios in cheerfully colored plastic bowls and run back to the refrigerator for the milk which I pour carefully so as to not nudge Cheerios out of the bowl. My older two sit down to eat just as the baby gets fussy for second breakfast. I scoop her out of her bouncy seat and head to the couch in the living room to cuddle and nurse her while I have the time, out of eyesight of the older two. I’m thankful for an excuse to sit down.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Mama, I made a spill" I hear my daughter say calmly about a minute later.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Ok, just a minute," I respond. I can't see it, but it's probably just a spoonful that fell onto the table or the floor. I'd have her clean it up but I don't have the time this morning to wait patiently through her cleaning process.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The baby seems satisfied enough so I slip her off my breast and head to take a look at the damage. As I turn the corner, I have to search for the spill: it's not on the table, nor on the floor. No, this time, the bowl and nearly all its contents somehow found their way onto the fabric-covered chair. <i>Of course they did</i>, I think to myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My daughter is just standing next to the chair, almost as if nothing has happened.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"Zoe!" I grumble out loud as I grab the dish rag. "This is a big spill! Why --" I trail off. I want to ask her why she didn't say something, but of course <i>she did</i> say something. I want to ask why the tone of her voice wasn't laced with more urgency when she announced the spill to me. In my mind in this moment, the spill of an entire bowl of cereal onto a fabric chair on a morning where we have to rush out the door is something of an urgent situation. I want to ask all of these “why” questions in a tone that is unkind.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I am stopped as I stare at the Cheerios on the chair.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>It has started out as this kind of day, but it doesn't have to <b>be</b> this kind of day</i>, I think to myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have to fight the parts of me that want to make a bowlful of Cheerios spilled onto a chair a much bigger deal than they are.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">---------------------------------------------------------------</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We are deep in the throes of potty training my two-year-old son. Without shame we have chosen to use candy to bribe him for each successful trip to the bathroom. We learned the first time around with my older daughter that sugar is an incredibly useful tool to be used to parental advantage.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Both of my older children are staring upward as I open the treat cupboard, the one that is intentionally well out of their reach, to grab an M&amp;M or two after one such successful run. Suddenly, my hand slips and I bump the bag, sending the remainder of the candies crashing to the floor. Dinnertime is near, but the mantra from earlier in the day comes back to me:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>It started out as this kind of day, but it doesn't have to <b>be</b> this kind of day.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The M&amp;Ms had fallen from such a height that it reminded me of raindrops, so I start singing the first song that comes to mind:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">"<i>It's raining M&amp;Ms, hallelujah, it's raining M&amp;Ms, hallelujah...</i>" I belt out, recreating The Weather Girls' 1983 classic <i>It's Raining Men</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My kids' mouths hang open for half a second before starting to laugh, almost as if waiting for permission. They aren't used to a kitchen spill producing a reaction like this from their harried mom. No, no; this is a much more delightful reaction than the one that can involve grumbling, grimacing and setting my jaw against saying the words that are chomping at the bit to spill forth from my mouth.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I continue to sing and scoop up M&amp;Ms from the tile floor, they join in, giggling and singing. Granted, a spill of M&amp;Ms is quite a bit more delightful than a soggy cereal spill, but I want to freeze this moment in my mind. We just experienced an interruption, a mess that will need to be cleaned up, and yet we are smiling, dancing and giggling. It started out as this kind of spill, but it doesn't have to be this kind of spill.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">---------------------------------------------------------------</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Weeks later, I am rocking my oldest to sleep. She has started her second week of school, and after a day without naps, she has asked me to do this. These are my favorite kinds of bedtime snuggles - when they are too tired to really fight sleep with much vigor, and lie exhaustedly still as I rock. I sing and run my fingers through her hair as her eyelids surrender slowly to the end of the day. I reach deep into the memory vault and picture her pulling herself to standing as a baby; running from room to room giggling as a two-year-old; singing from the top of her lungs while sitting on the potty at three. I pull her up to cradle her as I used to. How is it that she is now almost five? How is it that we are now here? My mind breaks into achy prayers as the sudden rush of guilt and fear fills me: I am messing this all up. Somehow, all these memories of the smaller version of her make me feel the weight of motherhood even more. I could have been more kind, more patient, more inviting, more encouraging, more playful, more, more, more. I can’t live up to my own standard of what it looks like to be the best mom for her. The more I fret over it, the worse it seems to get.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>It started out as this kind of memory, but it doesn't have to <b>be</b> this kind of memory.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It would be easy to dwell here, in the muck of failure and fear, to let my experience of motherhood be defined by what I haven’t done or wish I had done differently. But that’s a pretty awful place to build memories. So as I ask God to protect her from my failures, I also lay this moment at his feet. <i>It doesn’t have to be this kind of moment; I don’t want it to <b>be</b> this kind of&nbsp;</i><i>moment.</i></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">“I’m messing it up, Daddy...fix it.”</div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The fear of failure gives way to delight as I’m reminded of the girl who gives “rainbow kisses” (one kiss on the left cheek, forehead and right cheek to form the arc).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This same girl cannot resist breaking into song even in the middle of Trader Joe’s (seriously - 20 whole minutes of near constant song during our last trip there).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She has a strong desire to lead which, when used well, is amazing to watch.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She gives her brother the owl sticker she got at school as soon as she walks out the classroom door; she’s been thinking of him.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She stood up for a classmate who was told he was ugly - she said "No he's not! Don't say that!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Somehow, what started out as darkness becomes light, what started out as burden becomes delight, ashes are exchanged for beauty, and I am invited to rest in the witnessing of failures turned upside down.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It only started out as failure. It never has to finish that way.</div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-73831796638638225212017-07-18T16:27:00.000-07:002017-10-19T21:40:27.216-07:00Fly On the Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sUc55woh92s/WW6ZEyFYpFI/AAAAAAAAgN8/HZuPL9iGorsjfylTcOZWIAdjmlgaL9SoACLcBGAs/s1600/20121270_10108719007890113_2850948269984529566_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sUc55woh92s/WW6ZEyFYpFI/AAAAAAAAgN8/HZuPL9iGorsjfylTcOZWIAdjmlgaL9SoACLcBGAs/s1600/20121270_10108719007890113_2850948269984529566_o.jpg" /></a></div><div><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_596e98c5ab0224598892421" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning, in the hallway, Joel bursts into tears after accidentally biting his finger (being two is rough in terms of unintentional </span>self injury<span style="font-family: inherit;">). Phoebe, laying on the carpeted floor is startled by the sudden loud noise of his crying and begins to slowly push her bottom lip into a pout - it's so sad to watch but it's also one of those cute baby things that </span>makes<span style="font-family: inherit;"> you smile. Joel, being comforte</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">d by Mark notices that Phoebe is beginning to cry and mumbles some muffled words through his own tears, and runs to the living room. He grabs Phoebe's little cat doll (he always seems to keep track of exactly where it is), and as he runs back I finally understand what he was saying - "Phoebe's doll! Phoebe's doll!" he shouts repeatedly until he lays it down next to her and then collapses again into Mark to continue his cry. Mark and I "awwwwww!" to each other and cheer him on for his empathy. The cherry on top to this moment was Zoë, who heard the commotion and also came running with a small stuffed McDonald's happy meal toy that Joel has recently grown attached to in order to help comfort him.</span></div><div><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><a name='more'></a><br /><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Our days are currently long, very long. But my heart melts when I see my kids caring so well for each other (or their friends) even if I know they might be driving each other nuts about 10 minutes later (or waking the baby for the third time in an hour). This is what I hope to tuck away and treasure as they grow, to continue to remind them of the ways they have listened well to the call to care for one another even in the midst of their own suffering. What a privilege to have these fly on the wall moments.</span></div><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: &quot;san francisco&quot; , , &quot;blinkmacsystemfont&quot; , &quot;.sfnstext-regular&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br /><div class="fbPhotoProductTags" id="fbPhotoSnowliftProductTags" style="color: #1d2129; display: inline-block; font-family: 'San Francisco', -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; width: 328px;"></div><div class="pts fbPhotoProductsTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftProductsTagList" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: 'San Francisco', -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, '.SFNSText-Regular', sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: -0.23999999463558197px; orphans: auto; padding-top: 5px; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-4298690969365881082017-02-20T10:03:00.002-08:002017-10-19T17:20:25.066-07:00When A Baby Shower Feels Like An Act of Defiance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5aCtF3VygQ/WKpPjhKIhOI/AAAAAAAAgCg/E_jE2wAyRyERcQ17BFHrLZ3v_qVITzUkwCLcB/s1600/IMG_1459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5aCtF3VygQ/WKpPjhKIhOI/AAAAAAAAgCg/E_jE2wAyRyERcQ17BFHrLZ3v_qVITzUkwCLcB/s1600/IMG_1459.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's a bright sunny day, a respite from the rain that our region has experienced recently. Years of drought followed by this much rain, though, would leave anyone longing for the warmth of sun-kissed skin. We in Southern California are welcoming this sunny day with a similar energy that those in the Midwest welcome the smell of spring thaw.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am running late on this Thursday morning, as usual. Every week, I try again to make it the week that we will pick up the Afghan women and their children <i>on time</i>. That we will install the extra car seat <i>on time</i>. That we will get them all to English class <i>on time.</i>&nbsp;Fact: this is pressure I put on myself, never pressure that these women put on me. I am an American of distant German descent; my life has often been run by the clock, but I am lousy at being on time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Still, this Thursday morning is different. Today, class is canceled. Instead, there is a celebration to welcome two babies: one, a girl, growing large in my belly, and the other, a boy, growing large in the belly of his mother who came here from Afghanistan and has welcomed three other children before him. Together, the teachers and students in this class who represent Afghanistan, Syria, Canada, Turkey and the United States will throw a joint baby shower in honor of these babies who will both be U.S. citizens and share in the privileges thereby bestowed upon them.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><a name='more'></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I pick up the two women, sisters-in-law, from the two floor apartment that their families share. Between their families, there are four adults and six sons. The two year old accompanies his mother and his aunt to class on Wednesday and Thursday mornings while his older brothers and cousin are in school. I don't know exactly how many bedrooms there are in this apartment, but judging from the size of the first floor, it cannot be many. I am still learning the story of how they came to live here, but like several of the women in the group it is likely that their husbands worked for the U.S. military during our involvement in Afghanistan, or had some other American connections, and thus their lives had been threatened by the Taliban or others. This would put them among the lucky ones - those who qualify for Special Immigrant Visas and survived long enough to make it into the United States. <a href="https://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/607/didn%E2%80%99t-we-solve-this-one">For each of them, there are many others who still have not been able to come.</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We make the beautiful drive to the upper hills of our city, the neighborhoods where you can see the snow-capped mountains clearly in the distance, where signs indicate that drivers should be aware of riders on horseback. Today, we celebrate at the spacious and beautiful home of a woman who faithfully prays for and supports this group. It was an email from her that originally helped me connect with them last summer, doing the one low-commitment thing I felt I could do as a mother of two young children: drive my minivan to and fro.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I pull into her driveway and we unload: three of us mothers, and three of our children, along with gift bags and an aluminum tray of delicious smelling rice prepared Afghani style. I honestly couldn't tell you <i>what</i> makes it taste so good (I hope someday to learn!) but I know this: it tastes <i>so</i>&nbsp;good.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We are ushered to the back porch along with the other expectant mother, her children and the young university student who drove them. There are more than forty others there, I am sure, and a table spread with chicken dishes of multiple colors, deviled eggs, rice dishes, banana pudding, almond cookies and some more traditional American potluck fare (excepting anything that would include pork). It will be impossible to sample each one.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We gather in a circle and hold hands according to instructions from the head of house, the woman who emailed me last summer, and greet each other. The air is ripe with need for a celebration after the upheaval of the news from the last several weeks: an executive order from our president handled most sloppily and applied unjustly against entire citizenries of countries. It was immediately followed by objections across the country and eventually stayed by legal means. However, I gather that this has done little to assuage the fears of families across the world who now have solid evidence straight from the top that supports their suspicions of being unwelcome under this presidency. I don't know in what ways this eruption has personally impacted the students gathered here, but I am certain it has, and&nbsp;fear is not out of the question.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Food is piled onto plates, and we are smiles and laughter. Shrieks come forth from the mouths of the children gathered here who have spied a distant outdoor play space, complete with an old row boat long out of commission but perfect for the imagination of the typical preschooler. Eventually, all of us are gathered to a small grassy garden area, near a brook running through the property. I am ushered to a patio sofa along with the other expectant mother, and the showering of gifts begins. Truly, this is the most literal showering of gifts I have ever seen, let alone experienced. I have barely enough time to open one and look around to thank the giver briefly before another is pushed into my lap. The scene is the same on my right with the other mom. I can't help but giggle at it all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Internally, my logical bent does battle with my heart. As a person who errs toward painful practicality, receiving gifts for my third child is an exercise in accepting excess. It's not that I'm not grateful - I certainly am - but any hesitation toward simply receiving these sweet symbols of love runs the risk of being offensive. I wonder how much these women have had to scrape and save in order to celebrate not one but two babies who will soon be among us. Is it worth it? My family certainly has enough that this baby will be well taken care of - I hope so much that the receiving of these gifts has not caused unnecessary burdens for these families, and yet I have a sneaking suspicion that there has been sacrifice. They are beyond generous. I don't deserve their generosity. What have I done to help but drive them occasionally to class? As a native-born representative of my country I feel especially undeserving at the moment.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Slowly, though, in the same way the sun rises, it occurs to me how defiant this celebration is. Fear of difference has loomed large in the world for ages, and recently this fear has become more exposed than ever for this generation, in our hearts and across borders. The very fact that so many of us women from different countries are gathered together to celebrate <i>two</i> babies who will be born to mothers of different nationalities seems profound right now. In the face of a world that keeps telling us to fear, to retreat, to build walls, to close ourselves off, and to believe the worst stereotypes presented to us (to "<a href="https://vimeo.com/199720306">embrace our suspicions", as Austin Channing Brown puts it</a>), celebrating together throws burning coals in the direction of snake-like lies. It's a "NO!" in the face of fear that's as firm as the "NO!" I give my children when they make a dash toward a busy street.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The party stretches well beyond the time we typically allot for English class, but this seems to faze no one. I don't have all the names of the women who have been so generous with their sweet gifts, but I try to offer a few small words of gratitude and pleasure at being part of this growing group.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As we leave to take my friends home, I again dwell on the fact that I've never experienced a baby shower like this one: a party that feels so radical just by virtue of the fact that it insists on joy in the midst of uncertainty.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Nothing breaks down walls and causes us to sit down at the same table together like babies do. Though the English they may know is still growing, and though my Pashto, Farsi and Arabic are non-existent, we speak the same language of motherhood. We want our babies to be welcomed exuberantly into the world, we want them to grow up without fear for their lives, we want them to know love beyond comprehension. And so, as mothers we will insist on dancing for joy over our babies, insist on delighting over them, insist on singing over them, and insist on celebrating each one. This, most days, will be my most profound act of defiance in the face of fear - to speak and live love, hope, joy, celebration.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-52559795945487616822017-01-17T22:58:00.002-08:002017-10-19T21:42:20.963-07:00Thoughts on Dr. King and Violence/Nonviolence<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="4mpgf-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="8867l-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="1mu8t-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1mu8t-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><blockquote class="tr_bq"><span data-offset-key="1mu8t-0-0" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"He was one of the great people in our country. He got his message across without burning the flag, without violence, without disrepect for others."</span></blockquote></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="11f9j-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="a8i82-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a8i82-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="a8i82-0-0" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I saw the comment admittedly on a Facebook thread. I don't think of or recommend Facebook as a place for understanding the entirety of a person's experience, not by a long shot, but I have found it to be something of a place that can reveal more about people's intentions and thoughts than they may have intended to reveal, and I include myself in this. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-offset-key="a8i82-0-0">This comment about Dr. King teetered on the edge of truth. And yet, something was off. Instead of centering the conversation on him, his legacy, his words, his sacrifice, his call for disruptive action...instead of all that, the words seemed to <i><u>use him as a tool to cast thinly veiled judgment on something else</u></i>. I fear that a point had been gravely missed, and this one comment is representative of more like it that conveniently ignore the fact that Dr King. wrote these words, too:</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-offset-key="a8i82-0-0"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-offset-key="a8i82-0-0"></span></span><br /><a name='more'></a><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ecILDMo0kXs/WH8NvictCmI/AAAAAAAAf_U/7goEzzF8Ap0VMV6BKO7mVj36wUaVA6QFACLcB/s1600/16107330_10107712983820413_8869735645149321108_o.jpg" /></div><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Much violence, indeed, was suffered by Dr. King and those who followed his lead. People died and suffered horrible bodily injury as a result of following him, committing to the nonviolent tactics he demanded. Indeed his own life was taken in one of the most violent ways. But this violence was not perpetrated by those who followed him. It was perpetrated by those who had a great deal of power, even the power to change unjust laws, against those who were demanding justice in disruptive but nonviolent ways.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="73s0c-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="73s0c-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="73s0c-0-0" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It is indeed hard to know how much longer (if ever) it would have taken for certain laws to change without the violence of places like Selma. Or how much our country would be remembering the work of Dr. King had he been allowed to die a natural death at an old age. This isn't to say that violence is necessary, no, but to highlight the fact that our hearts can be so hardened that too often they are moved to softness only when we see violence. <i>The focus when violence happens should not be on the fact that violence has happened, but on what we (individually and corporately) were so blind to that it had to get to this point for us to see it.&nbsp;</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span data-offset-key="73s0c-0-0">My heart is like this. When I see how long it takes me to pay attention to Syria, to human trafficking, to abuses of power and the ongoing systemic racism within our own country, instead of listening early on to the voices telling us these things...I am certainly part of the perpetuation of these injustices.</span></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="3bocl-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3bocl-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3bocl-0-0" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="8m86v" data-offset-key="3ftrk-0-0" style="color: #4b4f56; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3ftrk-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3ftrk-0-0" style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">How are we honoring Dr. King today by listening to the messages of nonviolent protestors? How are we honoring Dr. King today by examining the power(s) we hold and using them to rightly seek justice for all who are oppressed? How are we honoring Dr. King today by committing to nonviolence in thought, word, action even toward those who would actively oppress us? </span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"></span><div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If you would call MLK Jr. "a peacemaker" (and I hope we do - he is one of the greatest examples we have in the modern era and indeed throughout history), please recognize that a great deal of his peacemaking involved people becoming very agitated, very uncomfortable and very angry, even to the point that they committed violent acts against him and his followers. As I recently heard from <a href="http://austinchanning.com/">Austin Channing Brown</a> in a sermon, "<b>MLK was not considered a peaceful unifier to most people while he was alive, least of all to those who liked the status quo of segregation and discrimination</b>".&nbsp;</span><br /><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; white-space: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(And, perhaps it's a good week to ask ourselves these questions: Is there anyone today that I am tempted to see as&nbsp;<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">an "agitator" who, 50 years from now, will be remembered as a "peacemaker"? What is keeping me from seeing them as a peacemaker <i>today</i>? From seeing their work as peacemaking work <i>today</i>? May our hearts be so softened.)</span></span></div><div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; white-space: normal;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px; white-space: normal;"><br /></div></div></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-58889536602291027702016-11-22T15:59:00.000-08:002017-10-19T22:01:58.352-07:00beware false peace<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jcku" data-offset-key="6prv1-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zxsf2qPRkho/WDTbbqgZmTI/AAAAAAAAf7s/e3oLOeFoYZcUPx9OfZJOPg-K_QXjrerkQCLcB/s1600/Screenshot%2B2016-11-22%2Bat%2B3.55.35%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zxsf2qPRkho/WDTbbqgZmTI/AAAAAAAAf7s/e3oLOeFoYZcUPx9OfZJOPg-K_QXjrerkQCLcB/s1600/Screenshot%2B2016-11-22%2Bat%2B3.55.35%2BPM.png" /></a></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6prv1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="6prv1-0-0">I've been thinking about peacemaking recently - what it looks like, how one goes about it. There's obviously been a lot of talk about peacemaking since the election, too, within churches and communities, hence the thinking on it. </span><br /><span data-offset-key="6prv1-0-0">I think, though, that we need to be careful about the narrative and visuals we get in our heads when it comes to using the verse in Matthew 5:9, <i>"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."</i></span><br /><span data-offset-key="6prv1-0-0"><i><br /></i></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jcku" data-offset-key="77h3p-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="77h3p-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="77h3p-0-0">I think for many of us, when we hear the word "peacemakers", we visualize those people who we view as bridges - bringing two opposing sides together at the table, asking them to lay down weapons, to make amends (reparations or compensation). This type of peacemaking is important. </span><br /><span data-offset-key="77h3p-0-0"><br /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jcku" data-offset-key="5vs5e-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5vs5e-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="5vs5e-0-0">But sometimes, the job of peacemakers is to disrupt a <i><b>false</b></i> peace, or to keep it from taking root. We know what is meant by <i><b>false </b></i>peace, right? Simple absence of open conflict. Sweeping things under the rug. Ignorance, willful or not, of that which is really happening. It's the type of "peace" that looks neat and tidy and <i>peaceful</i> to anyone on the outside, but is full of decay on the inside. </span><br /><span data-offset-key="5vs5e-0-0"><br /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jcku" data-offset-key="e7v67-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="e7v67-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="e7v67-0-0">As an example, Jesus was this type of peacemaker, I believe, when he "made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple courts, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables..." (John 2). At first blush, his actions seem incredibly <i>unpeaceful</i> to my white, Western eyes - I wonder, sometimes, how I would have responded if I'd stood witness there. Almost surely, in some of the communities I've lived in, this would count as a "disturbance of the peace". Today, the police might have been called. He may have even been arrested. And yet, and yet, Jesus always knew exactly what he was doing. He saw the situation for what it was. This was no place of peace, at least not anymore - it had become a "den of robbers" (Luke 19). People were being excluded from worshiping his Father in that space, or at least having to bear the burden of overcoming financial and ethnic exclusion in order to do so, and that enraged him. To those people, those who were excluded, it was an act of disrupting false peace - an unburdening, a defeat of oppression, a breaking down of walls. </span><br /><span data-offset-key="e7v67-0-0"><br /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jcku" data-offset-key="c7kvd-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="c7kvd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="c7kvd-0-0">After the beatitudes in Matthew 5, Jesus addresses some specific sins - anger, lust, etc. He's clear that it's not just murder or adultery (outwardly obvious actions) that are sinful, but the heart attitudes that lead to such actions that are sinful as well. I wonder - in what ways may we be settling for a <i style="font-weight: bold;">false</i> peace within many of our churches and communities? Our homes?</span><br /><span data-offset-key="c7kvd-0-0"><br /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jcku" data-offset-key="7cc6p-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7cc6p-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="7cc6p-0-0">Absence of conflict does not equal peace. May we have eyes open to root out false peace. </span></div></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-51212813555320434112016-11-03T17:31:00.004-07:002017-10-18T19:32:06.858-07:00Chili Recipes Recommended by Friends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O-Vb4RfQgsA/WBvYxCp0r1I/AAAAAAAAf3Q/Q2GmjU17IjMoXNNrMHr6-mi9SyuRIjSWgCLcB/s1600/Rhubarb%2BSauce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O-Vb4RfQgsA/WBvYxCp0r1I/AAAAAAAAf3Q/Q2GmjU17IjMoXNNrMHr6-mi9SyuRIjSWgCLcB/s1600/Rhubarb%2BSauce.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>On Halloween night, we missed an opportunity to join friends for a chili dinner before trick or treating. The combination of no naps for either of my kids, Mark getting home a little later than I expected, and just a general lack of energy meant that I think we made the best choice for us by staying local (my husband took the kids to about 5 or so houses on our street before they were done).<br /><div><br /></div><div>But the hankering for chili hadn't left me by the next day, and with the cooler weather (by So Cal standards), I decided to crowd source Facebook for my friend's recommendations for their favorite chili recipes. And this time, I'm keeping a record of them! I've done too many crowd-sourcing moves on Facebook that then get lost in the shuffle to let this opportunity pass me by.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>So, while I have only made one of the recipes below, I imagine the folks who sent them my way to know good chili, and wanted to keep a compiled list and pass it on to you all as well. I've divided them into "crock pot" and "non crock pot" lists. Enjoy!</div><div><br /></div><div><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">Non Crock Pot Recipes</span></u></b></div><div><b><u><br /></u></b></div><div>1. <a href="http://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/white-chicken-chili">White Chicken Chili from Taste of Home</a>&nbsp;(Prep Time 15 mins, Cook Time 25 mins)</div><div><br /></div><div>Recommended by my friend Daralynn, who says it is "super spicy if you use all the <b>cayenne pepper</b>". She recommends no more than 1/2 tsp. with little ones.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>For my own family, I'd probably cut out the jalapeno as well - Mark has super sensitive taste buds when it comes to spicy stuff. Zoe is starting to come around to appreciate a little kick in things like soup.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>2. <a href="http://www.conversationswithacupcake.com/2010/10/white-chicken-chili.html">White Chicken Chili from Cheeky Kitchen</a> (Prep/Cook Time Approx 30-45 mins)</div><div><br /></div><div>I made this one the other night. Recommended by my friend Rita, who says she likes it with the sour cream and cheese as a topping, and also with salsa. <br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P5ncU1BRjE0/WBvUyZ8zCqI/AAAAAAAAf3I/Y4Rejjn05ygOWOY5NeRVOHRGpR942iqMQCEw/s1600/DSC_0431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-P5ncU1BRjE0/WBvUyZ8zCqI/AAAAAAAAf3I/Y4Rejjn05ygOWOY5NeRVOHRGpR942iqMQCEw/s320/DSC_0431.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />I made it as instructed by the recipe, but substituted a quarter cup of white wine in for an equivalent amount of the broth (I probably could have done more!) and added a wee bit of corn starch in cold water near the end to thicken it just a bit more. Scrumptious, and delicious as leftovers the next day.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love a recipe that starts with <b>bacon</b>. For this recipe, I might use a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken. Less prep and less mess!</div><div><br /></div><div>3. <a href="http://www.stltoday.com/lifestyles/food-and-cooking/recipes/cd-s-chili-mole/article_0f93f094-6232-51dd-a87c-2f3573f2ed3d.html">CD's Chili Mole</a> (Prep/Cook Time Approx 3 to 3 1/2 hours)</div><div><br /></div><div>While this vegetarian recipe is easily the most complex (prep wise and taste-wise) recipe of those that were recommended (sounds like the perfect kind of recipe for a wide open Saturday morning or evening spent watching some Netflix or football in between tending to the stove), my friend Emily simplifies it by using canned beans. Still, well worth giving it a shot - I always appreciate eating recipes that are more complex!&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Most intriguing ingredients: <b>unsweetened chocolate, peanut butter, raisins</b>, lots of interesting <b>spices</b> and <b>beer</b> (note near bottom that beer can be substituted for a portion of the broth).&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>4. <a href="http://www.chilipeppermadness.com/chili-pepper-recipes/chili/shrimp-and-red-bean-chili">Shrimp and Red Bean Chili</a> (Prep/Cook Time 30-40 minutes)</div><div><br /></div><div>If you like the good taste of <b>shrimp</b>, this sounds like a nice easy way to eat it other than in cocktail format. Like my friend Susana does, I'd likely reduce the amount of peppers/hot sauce to keep it on the mild side.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">Crock Pot Recipes</span></u></b></div><div><b><u><br /></u></b></div><div>1. <a href="http://iowagirleats.com/2014/01/13/crock-pot-sweet-potato-and-quinoa-turkey-chili/">Crock Pot Sweet Potato and Quinoa Turkey Chili from Iowa Girl Eats</a> (Prep Time 15-20 mins, Cook Time 3 to 6 hours in crock pot)</div><div><br /></div><div>Recommended by my friend Erin, I love almost any recipe that includes <b>sweet potatoes</b> - a low-cost way of getting some good nutrition. Plus <b>quinoa</b>!</div><div><br /></div><div>2. <a href="http://www.bhg.com/recipe/red-bean-chicken-and-sweet-potato-stew/">Red Bean, Chicken and Sweet Potato Stew from BHG</a> (Prep Time 20 mins, Cook Time 5-6 hours)</div><div><br /></div><div>As my friend Jamie said, while not <i>technically</i>&nbsp;a chili recipe, it still sounds pretty good! I am so intrigued by the <b>peanut butter</b> - sounds like just the kind of oddball ingredient whose flavor I'd appreciate.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Per Jamie, this is also easy to prep ahead of time, freeze, and then toss in the crock pot when you are ready to use it later.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>3. <a href="https://smittenkitchen.com/2014/04/three-bean-chili/">Three Bean Chili from Smitten Kitchen</a> (Prep Time Time 30-40 mins, Cook Time 22 minutes to 7 hours)</div><div><br /></div><div>Recommended by my sister in law, who really knows her stuff when it comes to cooking for health <i>and</i>&nbsp;flavor, this one is great because, as she said, it breaks down lots of options for cooking it in a pressure cooker, on the stove or in the crock pot, in addition to recipe notes and substitutions. So, this one could be a crock pot or not crock pot version.</div><div><br /></div><div>Most intriguing ingredient: <b>beer</b>. I'd forgotten about how much beer can be just the kick you need for a good chili recipe. I think it helped influence my choice to substitute white wine for some of the broth in the white chicken chili I made last night.</div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-14484959520524195442016-09-08T14:24:00.001-07:002017-10-18T15:53:30.775-07:00The Year of Showing Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l_YCZfIF0jQ/V9D4mzq5SOI/AAAAAAAAfwc/cP0SqIlKCTkhkrWepfPocDuF9erZbsF_QCLcB/s1600/IMG_2292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-l_YCZfIF0jQ/V9D4mzq5SOI/AAAAAAAAfwc/cP0SqIlKCTkhkrWepfPocDuF9erZbsF_QCLcB/s1600/IMG_2292.jpg" title="" /></a></div><br /><i>Ding</i>. I looked down at my phone. A friend is hoping to visit her sister in the hospital - could I watch her two boys for the later part of the afternoon? My two kids are already well into nap time. It's the type of request that, years ago, perhaps even several months ago, I might have refused. The quiet of afternoon nap time is sacred space - time for processing and re-setting for the rest of the day. I guard it, I protect it. I cherish it. And, honestly, there's nothing wrong with that for young parents - it is one of the few breaks we get, and it's not always consistent.<br /><br />But there's this voice that gently tugs at me too as I re-read the text: Show up. <i>Show up.</i><br /><br />------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />There are two times during a year, generally, when it feels most natural to set new rhythms, leave behind unhealthy habits and create some new ones: once at the beginning of January, and once again at the beginning of the academic calendar near August or September.<br /><br />I've never been huge on resolutions or intentional creation of space for reflecting and starting with new habits. A "word for the year" hasn't ever really grabbed hold of me. But this past spring as I contemplated the rest that would be brought with summer and a certainty that I was not being called back to serve in a particular place where I had served for the past two years, another thought entered: showing up. Choosing to serve in places and with people who just required my showing up - no frills, no circus, very little to no preparation, but ready with hands and feet ready to receive marching orders.<br /><br />Preparation is good. Or, it <i>can </i>be good. And for some folks, especially the perpetually prepared Type A friends that I know and love, preparation and consistent service allows the calm and lack of anxiety that they tend to prefer, I think, in order to move through their days well.<br /><br />For me, however, I have begun to notice particularly in this season of young motherhood, that serving in places or being with people in ways that require much preparation actually causes <i>more</i>&nbsp;anxiety - it's just one more thing I haven't done on the perpetual list of things to do.<br /><br />As I thought and listened and decided to be intentional about where to commit my time as fall picked up the pace, I realized there was this constant thread of wanting to be in places where all that was required of me (mostly) was my being there. This summer, it looked like offering to drive Afghan refugee women and their children from their homes to English classes at a local church, <i>showing up with a van</i>. A couple times, it's looked like being able to watch after the children of friends while they care for others who are facing crises, <i>showing up with a house and toys to share</i>. For some people (and sometimes this includes me), filling in for these last minute needs would be stressful. And it's not that they are without their own stresses. I don't want my kids to resent time spent in the car shuttling people back and forth, but I <i>do</i>&nbsp;want them to learn about people coming from other countries to our own country to seek better opportunities. I want them to know these new acquaintances of ours firsthand.<br /><br />But for the most part, opportunities like this do not stress me out the way they did before. They usually come last minute, and therefore require little thinking ahead. It's just a "will you be there? Yes or no?". I have gotten better at saying no when I need to, but most of the time we just happen to have an open afternoon or other plans that have been canceled.<br /><br />I know of <i>many</i>&nbsp;people who much prefer to serve and be in places where there is more preparation required, or something that involves a more consistent schedule, and if you are one of those people I so admire you and thank you. Thank goodness there is a diversity of people when it comes to serving in different ways - we need both (and anyone else who falls somewhere in between)! I think there is also quite a bit of fluidity here - in some seasons, I will need to prepare more to serve in some places. But right now, when so much of my energy is going into keeping kids alive, well fed and mostly happy, I need spaces where all I have to do is <i>get there</i>. Sometimes, this doesn't even require me leaving my own house.<br /><br />------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />"Sure!" I text my friend back. "Bring them over, no problem."<br /><br />I'm sure it helped that I happened to have popsicles in the freezer that day. And that my friend didn't mind that I let her boys watch television until my kids woke up. Or that the weather happened to be pleasant enough that we all played outside. Or that I already happened to have a plan for dinner that day (miracle of miracles!). What gifts!<br /><br />This is my declaration: this is my year of simply showing up. Showing up with whatever I have and saying no (sometimes out loud) to anxiety and guilt for what I may not have. There's no shame in simply showing up with ready hands and feet.<br /><br /><br />Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-90290611119695892302016-08-19T07:37:00.001-07:002017-10-18T19:33:29.273-07:00Sharing The Load<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gxJls22Jt70/V7cZUYVg2EI/AAAAAAAAfug/V97GDrRX66Um3rmnsN0RDX-Cd9xr38zcgCLcB/s1600/DSC_0079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gxJls22Jt70/V7cZUYVg2EI/AAAAAAAAfug/V97GDrRX66Um3rmnsN0RDX-Cd9xr38zcgCLcB/s1600/DSC_0079.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This post is published in full at <a href="http://www.thevillagemag.com/blog/2016/8/20/sharing-the-load">The Village Magazine blog</a>. Thanks for reading!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div>The first time he prepared my coffee was on the morning of our five year wedding anniversary. Our daughter was two, our son had just been born a few weeks earlier, it was nearing the end of the fall semester - one of the more overwhelming times on the academic calendar to which our family is beholden. We had no plans to celebrate until later that month, no gifts for each other, but his simple act of kindness was gift enough that morning for this sleep-deprived mother: a hot, steaming cup of creamy coffee perfection, waiting for me right at the table.<br /><br />The best mornings now start when he gets my coffee ready. It's "my" coffee for several reasons, the most obvious being that he doesn't drink coffee - abhors the taste, hesitates to kiss me after I've had my cup. But he knows how much it's like a warm hug to me in the morning, to hold that cup in my hands as the day begins.<br /><br />It was purely an act of love for him to learn the process: boil the water, grind the beans, measure it out, let it steep for no more than 5 minutes, pour, add cream. And it's an act of love each time he prepares it for me and there's a hot cup ready and waiting like a love note in the morning. It doesn't happen every morning, and I'm glad for that - I have a habit of taking things for granted. This isn’t one...<br /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://www.thevillagemag.com/blog/2016/8/20/sharing-the-load">You can read the rest of this post here at The Village Magazine blog.</a></i></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-51125611059348432016-07-27T08:41:00.003-07:002017-10-18T19:35:52.907-07:005 Phrases To Help Avoid Toddler Meltdowns<i>This article is published in full at <a href="http://www.parent.co/5-phrases-to-help-avoid-toddler-meltdowns/">Parent.co</a>. You can read it in its entirety <a href="http://www.parent.co/5-phrases-to-help-avoid-toddler-meltdowns/">here</a>.</i><br /><i><br /></i>I’m not a huge fan of offering unsolicited parenting advice. I’ve received enough of it myself to be wary of people’s intentions when they do offer it.<br /><br />Are they judging? Criticizing? Honestly trying to help?<br /><br />My hope is that, if you’re reading this, it’s because you’re curious to learn what’s worked for other parents who were aiming to raise kind, thinking, strong, and flourishing people. The internet can get a bad rap as a really easy place to find bad advice, but I think sometimes it can almost feel safer than asking in person: those who are looking for advice can find it, those who are not looking for it don’t have to be subjected to the unsolicited version of it.<br /><br />What I write here is offered only as a “this is what has worked for me,” and perhaps each phrase will only be used for a season. What works at three years old may not work at four or five. I think the best thing for parents to remember is that we usually know our kids better than any other adult on the planet. We know when things work, we know when they’ll fall apart.<br /><br /><b>There has never been a silver bullet for parenting, and there never will be. That’s what makes it so hard. It’s also what makes it so beautiful – we grow so much more when we are forced to dive deep into knowing our individual children well.</b><br /><br />That said, here are the phrases that have helped us. <br /><br /><div><b><span style="font-size: large;">1 | “We are problem-solvers, not whiners.”</span></b><br />My husband is an engineer – a perpetual problem solver, if you will. As his spouse, it’s both a blessing and a curse; he loves to solve problems, but he also loves to solve problems. As one who loves to work through the process, sometimes I have to remind him that I’m not looking for a cut and dry solution right now. The strength? I can usually present him with the situation when I have a particular problem and expect that he won’t give up on it until it’s resolved.<br /><br />As a dad, he’s found this phrase to also be helpful with our three-year-old, who is (I hope) at the peak of the whiny years. When we hear her voice creep ever so slightly into the whiny range, we remind her of our goal: “We are problem-solvers, not whiners.” Most of the time, this helps her re-orient to a frame of mind in which she’s focused on figuring out what the problem is that led her to want to whine. Then we can move on to fixing that problem, or working past it. <br /><br />I’m waiting for the day when this phrase eventually backfires and she responds with, “I’m a whiner!” but for now it’s working...</div><div><br /></div><div><i>You can read the rest of this article <a href="https://www.blogger.com/I%E2%80%99m%20not%20a%20huge%20fan%20of%20offering%20unsolicited%20parenting%20advice.%20I%E2%80%99ve%20received%20enough%20of%20it%20myself%20to%20be%20wary%20of%20people%E2%80%99s%20intentions%20when%20they%20do%20offer%20it.%20%20Are%20they%20judging?%20Criticizing?%20Honestly%20trying%20to%20help?%20%20My%20hope%20is%20that,%20if%20you%E2%80%99re%20reading%20this,%20it%E2%80%99s%20because%20you%E2%80%99re%20curious%20to%20learn%20what%E2%80%99s%20worked%20for%20other%20parents%20who%20were%20aiming%20to%20raise%20kind,%20thinking,%20strong,%20and%20flourishing%20people.%20The%20internet%20can%20get%20a%20bad%20rap%20as%20a%20really%20easy%20place%20to%20find%20bad%20advice,%20but%20I%20think%20sometimes%20it%20can%20almost%20feel%20safer%20than%20asking%20in%20person:%20those%20who%20are%20looking%20for%20advice%20can%20find%20it,%20those%20who%20are%20not%20looking%20for%20it%20don%E2%80%99t%20have%20to%20be%20subjected%20to%20the%20unsolicited%20version%20of%20it.%20%20What%20I%20write%20here%20is%20offered%20only%20as%20a%20%E2%80%9Cthis%20is%20what%20has%20worked%20for%20me,%E2%80%9D%20and%20perhaps%20each%20phrase%20will%20only%20be%20used%20for%20a%20season.%20What%20works%20at%20three%20years%20old%20may%20not%20work%20at%20four%20or%20five.%20I%20think%20the%20best%20thing%20for%20parents%20to%20remember%20is%20that%20we%20usually%20know%20our%20kids%20better%20than%20any%20other%20adult%20on%20the%20planet.%20We%20know%20when%20things%20work,%20we%20know%20when%20they%E2%80%99ll%20fall%20apart.%20%20There%20has%20never%20been%20a%20silver%20bullet%20for%20parenting,%20and%20there%20never%20will%20be.%20That%E2%80%99s%20what%20makes%20it%20so%20hard.%20It%E2%80%99s%20also%20what%20makes%20it%20so%20beautiful%20%E2%80%93%20we%20grow%20so%20much%20more%20when%20we%20are%20forced%20to%20dive%20deep%20into%20knowing%20our%20individual%20children%20well.%20%20That%20said,%20here%20are%20the%20phrases%20that%20have%20helped%20us.%20%20%201%20|%20%E2%80%9CWe%20are%20problem-solvers,%20not%20whiners.%E2%80%9D%20%20My%20husband%20is%20an%20engineer%20%20%E2%80%93%20a%20perpetual%20problem%20solver,%20if%20you%20will.%20As%20his%20spouse,%20it%E2%80%99s%20both%20a%20blessing%20and%20a%20curse;%20he%20loves%20to%20solve%20problems,%20but%20he%20also%20loves%20to%20solve%20problems.%20As%20one%20who%20loves%20to%20work%20through%20the%20process,%20sometimes%20I%20have%20to%20remind%20him%20that%20I%E2%80%99m%20not%20looking%20for%20a%20cut%20and%20dry%20solution%20right%20now.%20The%20strength?%20I%20can%20usually%20present%20him%20with%20the%20situation%20when%20I%20have%20a%20particular%20problem%20and%20expect%20that%20he%20won%E2%80%99t%20give%20up%20on%20it%20until%20it%E2%80%99s%20resolved.%20%20As%20a%20dad,%20he%E2%80%99s%20found%20this%20phrase%20to%20also%20be%20helpful%20with%20our%20three-year-old,%20who%20is%20(I%20hope)%20at%20the%20peak%20of%20the%20whiny%20years.%20When%20we%20hear%20her%20voice%20creep%20ever%20so%20slightly%20into%20the%20whiny%20range,%20we%20remind%20her%20of%20our%20goal:%20%E2%80%9CWe%20are%20problem-solvers,%20not%20whiners.%E2%80%9D%20Most%20of%20the%20time,%20this%20helps%20her%20re-orient%20to%20a%20frame%20of%20mind%20in%20which%20she%E2%80%99s%20focused%20on%20figuring%20out%20what%20the%20problem%20is%20that%20led%20her%20to%20want%20to%20whine.%20Then%20we%20can%20move%20on%20to%20fixing%20that%20problem,%20or%20working%20past%20it.%20%20%20%20I%E2%80%99m%20waiting%20for%20the%20day%20when%20this%20phrase%20eventually%20backfires%20and%20she%20responds%20with,%20%E2%80%9CI%E2%80%99m%20a%20whiner!%E2%80%9D%20but%20for%20now%20it%E2%80%99s%20working.">here</a> at Parent.co</i></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-79479165913760347862016-07-15T17:18:00.000-07:002017-10-18T19:32:35.537-07:00Things I Heard In A Sermon This Week That Bothered MeThe sermon to which I am referring was preached on the text of Acts 4, after the events of the week of July 4th, 2016.<br /><b><br /></b><b>"I wrote this message on Wednesday, before the world went to hell this week."</b><br /><div><br /></div><div><i>Alton Sterling's death happened Tuesday evening. Philando Castille was killed Wednesday evening. Five Dallas police officers were killed on Thursday. Unless we are favoring the lives of police officers over black men, the "world started going to hell" this week on Tuesday (and far, far before that for Americans of color).&nbsp;</i><br /><br /><b>"America is the greatest country on earth. If you don't believe me, you haven't traveled."</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>In what respects? To whom is it the greatest country on earth? It was founded on the backs of slaves and mistreatment of indigenous people who were already living here, many whose communities were destroyed. I'm not sure what's so great about that. On a personal note, as a young mom, I'd much rather live in a country that offered paid parental leave, though that's a little off topic here.&nbsp;</i><br /><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b style="color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">"The police of the day, the people in power of the day, the Sadduccees have them arrested. See what believers do - they submit to authority. We need to submit to authority even when they get it wrong..."</b></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #001320;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #001320;"><i>So, <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/ohio-arrest-united-arab-emirates-warns-citizens-traditional-clothing/">even if authorities take us down for no other reason than that we are wearing clothing traditional to our country and speaking our native tongue</a><a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/ohio-arrest-united-arab-emirates-warns-citizens-traditional-clothing/">&nbsp;on a cell phone</a> - even then we should submit? I suppose that makes sense if we don't want to take the risk of being killed, but sometimes even when you submit to authorities, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Freddie_Gray">you end up dead</a>. This bothers me most especially, however, in that not even Peter and John were submissive to the authorities of their day (in the text that was used for this sermon), who commanded them (v. 18) not to speak or teach at all in the name of Jesus. Their response? "As for us, we cannot help but speaking about what we have seen and heard." Basically, a big "#sorrynotsorry - what God commands is far more important."</i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="line-height: 20px;"><span style="color: #001320;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="color: #001320; line-height: 20px;">"What you can do is witness a video where a black person is killed, the same video, we're all looking at it and we're seeing it from different perspectives. You're seeing it from your truth and I'm seeing it from my truth. And let me tell you something - God doesn't have a problem with us seeing things from different perspectives..."</b><br /><b style="color: #001320; line-height: 20px;"><br /></b><span style="color: #001320;"><span style="line-height: 20px;"><i>He may not have a problem with us seeing things from different perspectives initially, but He always tells us to look for the truth. I may be seeing something from my perspective, but if the lens that I am looking through is faulty, I am not seeing the truth. In the end, it's not my perspective that matters, it's the *truth* that matters. The *truth* will set me free, not my perspective.</i></span></span><br /><span style="color: #001320;"><span style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b>"The church doesn't protest, the church doesn't march - what do they do? They pray."</b><br /><b><br /></b><i>What does this mean about the many marches, demonstrations and protests led by Dr. King during the Civil Rights movement? God's people pray <b>and</b>&nbsp;protest. We civilly disobey, we afflict the comfortable. We preach the gospel at all times, and when necessary, we use words.</i><br /><i><br /></i></div><div><b style="color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">"The world is watching how the church responds, and they will not forget."</b></div><div><b style="color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><br /></b></div><div><span style="color: #001320; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><i>Yes. Keeping in mind that the majority of the world is made up of people of color, when our first response to the death of people who have a history of oppression in our world is to question the circumstances under which they died instead of immediately lamenting and mourning the fact that we have lost yet another image-bearer of God (something which should be part of the response of every single member of the church), something is wrong.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>"My favorite song, the first song I remember singing in the church is Jesus loves the [little children of the] world: red, yellow, black and white, they are </b><i>all</i>&nbsp;<b>precious in His sight. Yes, Jesus loves the children of the world."</b><br /><b><br /></b><i>This song is straight up racist. Both "red" and "yellow" have been used as derogatory ways to refer to people of Native American and Asian descent. The sentiment and intent behind the song is good - but it's well past the point to stop using that verse. This is why pastors and preachers need to be surrounded by diverse people groups, and read books, essays and publications from diverse authors and thought leaders. Otherwise, you end up using a racist song as a way to end your sermon.</i></div></div></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-82440074296512145602016-06-26T01:18:00.001-07:002017-10-18T16:05:54.097-07:00Recipe: Blackberry Bacon Swiss Grilled Cheese<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Summer where I live in California can come with some pretty intense heat. So hot that if you haven't gotten the kids to the park and off the slides before 9am, forget about it. Hot enough that I'm learning I have to cover my tomatoes so they don't burn before they are ripe enough to pick. And hot enough that the last thing I want to be doing is preparing a meal over a hot stove, oven or even a grill. Even a crock pot can heat up our little kitchen a bit too much.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hfBBkFVcM-Q/V297vpYC7eI/AAAAAAAAfqc/1Zw7lyO2Qt8WhUW9_ypzWFQjEZBz5DI0ACKgB/s1600/DSC_0225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hfBBkFVcM-Q/V297vpYC7eI/AAAAAAAAfqc/1Zw7lyO2Qt8WhUW9_ypzWFQjEZBz5DI0ACKgB/s1600/DSC_0225.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the ingredients for one of the best grilled cheese sandwiches I've ever had.</td></tr></tbody></table>To that end, I was delighted when I saw some ideas for summer sandwiches - easy, delicious and best of all: no heat required. Well - only very small amounts of heat, and that's only if you want the cheese melted. I like this particular sandwich heated up just a bit in the microwave, but I'm guessing it would taste just fine cold, too. If you're daring enough to actually use a griddle on a hot summer day, you can get the nice browned outsides too. This recips is a twist on one I saw from <a href="http://www.lemontreedwelling.com/2016/04/blackberry-bacon-grilled-cheese.html">Lemon Tree Dwelling</a>&nbsp;that sounds delicious, but since my family cannot do jalapenos (I personally love a little kick, but maybe not quite as much as you could get in a jalapeno), I improvised.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vLse4LpbqTM/V298Ho5wSoI/AAAAAAAAfqM/Fp1BA8KjM74Zj2x_dXg76RSchn0zN2GtgCKgB/s1600/DSC_0255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vLse4LpbqTM/V298Ho5wSoI/AAAAAAAAfqM/Fp1BA8KjM74Zj2x_dXg76RSchn0zN2GtgCKgB/s1600/DSC_0255.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the part where I apologize for the fact that I am neither a food blogger nor a photographer. But I promise I do know when something tastes too good to not be shared!</td></tr></tbody></table>I am a sucker for salty/sweet combinations, and one of the great things about this sandwich is that it's easy to substitute what you have for what you don't. No goat cheese? Cream cheese will do. No bacon? Sliced ham or lunchmeat will work in a pinch. No blackberry jam? Use whatever flavor you have on hand. A friend even thought an apricot or mango chutney might work well. The possibilities are honestly quite endless.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D7PbTt51NQU/V2974OCuarI/AAAAAAAAfqc/XFtyhxi9jkEjmQXPTkrGKUQbKZQm5tj1gCKgB/s1600/DSC_0235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D7PbTt51NQU/V2974OCuarI/AAAAAAAAfqc/XFtyhxi9jkEjmQXPTkrGKUQbKZQm5tj1gCKgB/s1600/DSC_0235.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pAaKMcnhURU/V2971QyDQYI/AAAAAAAAfqc/Te-Eqc2xysc1KblIvoQsi-7dASbDp2GwgCKgB/s1600/DSC_0232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pAaKMcnhURU/V2971QyDQYI/AAAAAAAAfqc/Te-Eqc2xysc1KblIvoQsi-7dASbDp2GwgCKgB/s1600/DSC_0232.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Confession: for photos, I did use cream cheese, not goat cheese. A good substitute!</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JmMX7FFxM3A/V298BbExFQI/AAAAAAAAfqc/JKVCwGQVJeY8wUm2DsErBe25O16oNyvKQCKgB/s1600/DSC_0247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JmMX7FFxM3A/V298BbExFQI/AAAAAAAAfqc/JKVCwGQVJeY8wUm2DsErBe25O16oNyvKQCKgB/s1600/DSC_0247.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I make a lazy "pesto": lots of basil, a small handful of kale &amp; a couple tomatoes. It really doesn't even count as pesto. I like going a little heavy on the basil.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vbubjU6f4gs/V298C79xAtI/AAAAAAAAfqc/jSygaNYbmYYriv3t-DZsO0eNF78580_rQCKgB/s1600/DSC_0250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vbubjU6f4gs/V298C79xAtI/AAAAAAAAfqc/jSygaNYbmYYriv3t-DZsO0eNF78580_rQCKgB/s1600/DSC_0250.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lazy Man's Pesto.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="therecipewizprintwrapper" id="Blackberry-Bacon-Swiss-Grilled-Cheese"><div class="hrecipe" id="therecipewiz" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/Recipe"><div class="item" id="rechead"><br /><div class="recabout"><div class="title fn" itemprop="name"><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">Blackberry Bacon Swiss Grilled Cheese</span></u></b></div><div class="byline">by <span class="author" itemprop="author">Catherine Gordon </span><span class="published" datetime="2016-06-26" itemprop="published"> June-26-2016<span class="value-title" title="2016-06-26"></span></span></div><div class="summary" itemprop="summary">An easily modifiable twist on an old classic.</div><div class="clear"></div></div></div><div id="recbody"><div class="subtitle">Ingredients</div><ul><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">2 slices </span> <span itemprop="name"> sourdough bread</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">1-3 TB </span> <span itemprop="name"> blackberry jam</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">1 TB </span> <span itemprop="name"> goat cheese (or cream cheese)</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">2-4 slices </span><span itemprop="name">bacon (I use pre-cooked bacon bought at Costco)</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">2 slices </span> <span itemprop="name"> swiss cheese</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">large handful </span> <span itemprop="name"> basil</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">small handful </span> <span itemprop="name"> kale</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">1 small </span> <span itemprop="name"> tomato</span></span></li><li><span class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredient" itemscope="" itemtype="http://data-vocabulary.org/RecipeIngredient"><span itemprop="amount">1-2 TB </span> <span itemprop="name"> butter (optional)</span></span></li></ul><div class="clear"></div><div class="subtitle">Instructions</div><div itemprop="instructions"><span class="instruction">Toast both slices of bread. Spread butter on outsides of slices if desired. On inside of one slice, spread blackberry jam. On the other, goat cheese (or cream cheese substitute). Layer bacon and swiss on one of the slices. In food processor, combine kale, basil &amp; tomatoes until they form a loose pesto-like consistency. Spread portion of mixture to taste on sandwich. If desired, heat sandwich in microwave just enough to heat and melt Swiss cheese (about 45 seconds). Enjoy!</span></div><div class="clear"></div><div class="subtitle">Details</div><span class="time preptime">Prep time: <time datetime="PT5M" itemprop="prepTime">5 mins </time><span class="value-title" title="PT5M"></span></span><span class="time cooktime">Cook time: <time datetime="PT1M" itemprop="cookTime">1 mins </time><span class="value-title" title="PT1M"></span></span><span class="time duration">Total time: <time datetime="PT6M" itemprop="totalTime">6 mins </time><span class="value-title" title="PT6M"></span></span><span class="yield">Yield: <span itemprop="yield">1 sandwich</span></span><br /><span class="yield"><span itemprop="yield"><br /></span></span><span class="yield"><span itemprop="yield">I'd love to hear about how you'd modify this recipe with what you have. I think sticking with the salty/sweet combo is key, but the rest can be played with.&nbsp;</span></span></div></div></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-73192808696858405522016-06-23T16:22:00.003-07:002017-10-18T19:41:12.526-07:00To Three or Not to Three: A Two-Kid Family Dilemma<div style="text-align: center;"><i>This post was originally published on <a href="http://parent.co/">Parent.co</a>. You can read the entire post <a href="http://www.parent.co/to-three-or-not-to-three-a-two-kid-family-dilemma/">here</a>.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M0Z5RBkDVbI/V2xuJ0Qoy0I/AAAAAAAAfmM/7cHmRfHSH1EiSolugAUgVz2wa6FpdOnYQCLcB/s1600/12307604_10105917963121283_5704041790289946242_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M0Z5RBkDVbI/V2xuJ0Qoy0I/AAAAAAAAfmM/7cHmRfHSH1EiSolugAUgVz2wa6FpdOnYQCLcB/s1600/12307604_10105917963121283_5704041790289946242_o.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>“I just realized­ this is the first summer I will not be either pregnant or breastfeeding since 2011!” I text my friends.<br /><br />I don’t remember what made me think of it, but it’s a groundbreaking revelation for me. Every one of the past four summers I have been growing a baby inside or outside my body, with my body. My daughter is now three-and-a-half, my son is eighteen months. It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s been four years of this, but it’s been four years of this. An amazing four years, a beautiful four years, a privileged four years. But <i>four freakin’ years.</i><br /><br />This is the first summer, in other words, where I will actually not be sharing my body with a tiny person for the purpose of nourishing their physical bodies.<br /><br />I tell my husband about this revelation as he eats breakfast.<br /><br />“Oh, we can fix that,” he quips. I laugh and give him a “deer ­in­ the ­headlights” look. Not what I was getting at, but we’ve been in negotiations about this recently...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You can read the rest of this post <a href="http://www.parent.co/to-three-or-not-to-three-a-two-kid-family-dilemma/">here</a>. Thanks!</i></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-31603727582101790152016-06-17T09:18:00.001-07:002017-10-18T19:41:32.785-07:00Squeaky Clean: How I Got My Toddler to Brush Her Teeth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>This post was originally published on <a href="http://parent.co/">Parent.co</a>. You can read the post in full <a href="http://www.parent.co/squeaky-clean-got-toddler-brush-teeth/">here</a>.&nbsp;</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u6odgNiNJFk/V2QiKvQLLbI/AAAAAAAAflA/l21hBz8vq5AxmmxaOqqCUbPWKq1saMDNwCLcB/s1600/13221579_10106538709241083_7758229783768607759_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u6odgNiNJFk/V2QiKvQLLbI/AAAAAAAAflA/l21hBz8vq5AxmmxaOqqCUbPWKq1saMDNwCLcB/s1600/13221579_10106538709241083_7758229783768607759_n.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>With her pajamas finally on, I reach my hand up above my daughter’s belly, widen my eyes, and grin at her; she stills and begins to giggle in the middle of the long pause as she anticipates another round of tickle wrestling.<br /><br />I growl playfully and plunge the tips of my fingers onto her belly, underarms, legs. The squeal of tickled laughter fills the tiny bedroom. This is my favorite part of the exhausting process that is the bedtime routine.<br /><br />And then I remember. Dang it. It can wait until morning, right?<br />But tonight, Elmo toothpaste has apparently lost its appeal.<br /><br />“Zoe, we forgot to brush your teeth,” I say, wishing I could have blocked that other part of me that whispered something about having to build consistent dental hygiene habits.<br /><br />“Uh oh!” she replies smiling, the tickles still miraculously working their happy effect.<br /><br />“I know, silly mama forgot. Let’s go to the bathroom, kiddo.”<br /><br />We trudge down the hall and flip on the lights. I sigh as I lift her up to sit on the bathroom counter so she can only move so far. I pull out her generic caterpillar toothbrush and the Elmo toothpaste. In this house, Elmo wins everything, and so far, Elmo toothpaste has helped us with the teethbrushing routine. Thanks, Elmo.<br /><br />“Please, Zoe, open your mouth. We need to brush your teeth!”<br /><br />I am met with pursed lips. I don’t have the energy for pursed lips.<br /><br />“Come on, Zoe, we can get it done really fast and then go rock and snuggle!”<br /><br />Toddler bedtime ranks right up there with doing your taxes and driving the freeway during rush hour in the way that it can suck the life out of you...<br /><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You can read the rest of this story <a href="http://www.parent.co/squeaky-clean-got-toddler-brush-teeth/">here</a>. And if you like it, please consider sharing!</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><span class="s1" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="sumo_twilighter_highlighted twilighter-7f4c8bc4" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: inherit; cursor: inherit; float: inherit; font-family: inherit &quot;important&quot;; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: inherit;"><span class="sumo_twilighter_shares" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: 4px 0px; background-repeat: no-repeat; box-shadow: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgb(94 , 171 , 223); font-size: xx-small; padding: 0px 4px 0px 18px; vertical-align: middle; visibility: visible;"><br /></span></span></span></div></div></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-1488660384842694292016-06-10T16:46:00.001-07:002017-10-18T19:35:42.031-07:006 Inexpensive Things That Will Entertain Traveling Kids<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-etcYCIP-3_o/V1tNtCe_QiI/AAAAAAAAfj4/s_Qpv6SMRcYk_XDn7zJXkGHiTfmTiRyHACLcB/s1600/image%2B%252810%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-etcYCIP-3_o/V1tNtCe_QiI/AAAAAAAAfj4/s_Qpv6SMRcYk_XDn7zJXkGHiTfmTiRyHACLcB/s640/image%2B%252810%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our sweet little Honda Fit that we stuffed with 2 adults and 2 kids under 3, one double BOB stroller, one pack n play, snacks, one Bumbo and two suitcases jam packed full of clothing for all four of us, for a two week trip up to Seattle and back down the West Coast. It was awesome, and might have been even more awesome with a couple long trip toys to keep the kiddos a bit more chill.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This post was originally published at <a href="http://parent.co/">Parent.co</a>. You can read the entire post <a href="http://www.parent.co/6-inexpensive-things-that-will-entertain-traveling-kids/">here</a>.&nbsp;</i></div><br />It's that time of year again! Summer is here, and while <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/05/sunday-review/the-families-that-cant-afford-summer.html?_r=0" target="_blank">traveling long distances is not a part of every family's summer plans</a>, for some families who live far away from grandparents and extended family, this is peak travel season.<br /><br />This summer we will travel back to the MidWest for my brother's wedding, and while I love getting to go back to my hometown and see some of the people I love the most, I always get a little <strike>panicked</strike>&nbsp;worried thinking about the long airplane trips we sign ourselves up for. We usually have at least one layover involved, making for almost an entire day of travel with our two young kids. While we try to schedule our flights around nap time to ideally pass a few of the hours with <strike>cranky and tired</strike>&nbsp;sleeping children, my 3 year old daughter has recently started giving up her naps, so&nbsp;I'm hoping to get a little more creative with how we keep her occupied on the plane ride this time.<br /><br />While she is old enough to <strike>be addicted to</strike>&nbsp;appreciate screen time and apps, my son is still a little young to fully utilize them, so we are looking for a mix of hands-on and screen-based activities. Thankfully, there are quite a few of both out there that can keep our kiddos occupied. I try to look for activities that will hold their attention for longer stretches and are low cost. Here are a few I recommend:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>You can read the rest of this post <a href="http://www.parent.co/6-inexpensive-things-that-will-entertain-traveling-kids/">here</a>.&nbsp;</i></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-20140107529761598882016-06-07T15:26:00.006-07:002017-10-19T17:31:34.912-07:005 Things I Hope My Children Learn From Growing A Vegetable Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 21.56px;">This post was originally published by&nbsp;<a href="http://parent.co/" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">Parent.co</a>. You can find the entire version&nbsp;<a href="http://www.parent.co/5-things-hope-children-learn-growing-vegetable-garden/"><span style="color: #888888;">here</span>.</a></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8jgnmykKtFU/V1dJj2Hpi5I/AAAAAAAAfjA/86bccVwLMuYft0IwvwUS8Qojl90p_F7swCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8jgnmykKtFU/V1dJj2Hpi5I/AAAAAAAAfjA/86bccVwLMuYft0IwvwUS8Qojl90p_F7swCLcB/s400/image%2B%25286%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="stag-intro-text run-in" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: 'Libre Baskerville', Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 36px; margin-bottom: 26px;">Growing up in Michigan, my mom had a vegetable garden that she grew just adjacent to our back porch. I remember her excitement at bringing in lettuce leaves, making rhubarb bread, and trying to recover from spying the occasional slithering garden snake.</div><div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: 'Libre Baskerville', Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 26px;">I don’t remember getting involved in the gardening process much, other than eating (and probably complaining about eating) the vegetables and fruits that were grown there, but now – deep into parenthood myself – I appreciate much more the effort involved in raising young children and trying to keep plants alive and growing, too.</div><div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: 'Libre Baskerville', Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 26px;">I started a garden in our California backyard when my first child was nearly one year old with the simple intention of trying to save a little money by growing some of our own food. As we added another child to our family, my commitment to gardening waned because, well, children. But we are finally coming to the surface for air again this growing season with a 3-and-a-half-year-old and a one-and-a-half-year-old, and I’m trying to approach it with new intentions as I get my children involved.</div><div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: 'Libre Baskerville', Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 26px;">Here’s&nbsp;what I hope to show them without directly telling them:</div><h3 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; clear: both; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: Montserrat, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; letter-spacing: 0.02px; line-height: 1.1667; margin: 1.414em 0px 0.5em; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 0.24s ease-in-out; visibility: visible;">1 | Good things take time.</h3><div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: 'Libre Baskerville', Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 26px;">It’s been roughly 80 days since our first tomato plants were planted earlier this spring. We have harvested four tomatoes so far, each on separate days, two of which were bite-­size cherry tomatoes. The anticipation of a ripened tomato has been hard for my daughter when I tell her they aren’t quite ready yet, especially when I’ve enticed her outside with, “Let’s check and see if the tomatoes are ready!”</div><div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.8); font-family: 'Libre Baskerville', Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 26px;">However, the few times we have taken a ripe one off the vine, sliced it, sprinkled it with a little salt, and bitten into it have been moments worth the wait. We’ve even convinced her to categorize tomatoes as a “dessert” item. (Relax… she’s known about chocolate for years.)...</div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 21.56px; text-align: center;"><i>Head over to&nbsp;<span style="color: #888888;"><a href="http://head%20over%20to%20parent.co%20to%20read%20the%20rest%20of%20this%20post.%20thanks%21/">Parent.co to read the rest of this post</a></span>. Thanks!</i></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-90140175867149166052016-06-03T11:25:00.000-07:002017-10-18T19:40:58.330-07:00Letter to Joel + Bumble Bee Tickling Rhymes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nqRvVI-hbcM/V1Gwmgzx86I/AAAAAAAAfhM/JbzOp-VW3n0dBthDggvxj-wJ-eDVg2cHwCLcB/s1600/13246187_10106546196032493_8411409851779993542_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nqRvVI-hbcM/V1Gwmgzx86I/AAAAAAAAfhM/JbzOp-VW3n0dBthDggvxj-wJ-eDVg2cHwCLcB/s1600/13246187_10106546196032493_8411409851779993542_o.jpg" /></a></div><br />Dear Joel,<br /><br />Sometimes I want just an entire day to stare at your face, to kiss your soft cheeks, tousle your hair, chase you and your sister around the house, tackle you with tickles and rock you to sleep. Actually, when I think of it, most of our days are made up of moments like this - they're just mixed in with moments of tantrums, whining, slips and falls and many, many tears. I can't have one without the other at this stage, but that's ok. I'll take the pain and growing moments with the delightful ones.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3aNsbuFLNCg/V1HIJadmX9I/AAAAAAAAfhk/3DGb4roWD1wYPpqotMNuqxspJO9ZDEBcgCKgB/s1600/11057841_10106208412618163_7768964790697842222_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3aNsbuFLNCg/V1HIJadmX9I/AAAAAAAAfhk/3DGb4roWD1wYPpqotMNuqxspJO9ZDEBcgCKgB/s1600/11057841_10106208412618163_7768964790697842222_o.jpg" /></a></div><br />You got your hair cut a couple months ago. It was much needed, as your hair had fallen well over your eyes and was getting full of food at dinner time. I was ready and not yet ready to say goodbye to the baby hair, but when I could see your eyes clearly again without having to sweep your hair to one side, I saw how much expression I had been missing out on, too.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-glfFUh9MTNk/V1HKjJ9qcLI/AAAAAAAAfiE/vN2lc9oIDfQvllmqAk3BZ2CnT59HENRcwCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-glfFUh9MTNk/V1HKjJ9qcLI/AAAAAAAAfiE/vN2lc9oIDfQvllmqAk3BZ2CnT59HENRcwCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25288%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />You have so many new words, and I sense that this summer will be one of vocabulary explosion as it was for your sister the summer before you were born.<br /><br />"Wawa" - specifically water, but useful to refer to any liquid drink that you are pointing to, be it milk or orange juice.<br /><br />"Ah-poo" - specifically apples, but useful to refer to any fruit that you are pointing to, from bananas to strawberries and, much to my chagrin, even Welch's fruit snacks.<br /><br />"Mama" - you've had this one for a while, but it's particularly delightful to hear when I appear after an absence from you and you turn to me, arms wide open and stumble-running, inflection changing from high to low between first syllable and last, as if sighing out an entire feeling of peace - "Mama is here, all is well."<br /><br />"Dah-dee" - you've also had this one for a while, equally as delightful. I'll admit it stung a smidge when you first started calling out for Daddy through cries and tears after a tumble or a bump, especially when I was already holding you. I think, however, it was sweet to realize that you were just imitating your older sister's cry out for Daddy after such events. She also used to cry for me, and then when you were born, she and Daddy grew much closer as it became more difficult to hold two little independent, wiggly bodies in my lap. Still, most days, your preference is still Mama.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dZw2HPmoiRE/V1HIJzDT-0I/AAAAAAAAfh0/b-NbZzutGnM8TFk0tca_wnzlywSTW64WQCKgB/s1600/13248546_10106546189650283_4162742383890407727_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dZw2HPmoiRE/V1HIJzDT-0I/AAAAAAAAfh0/b-NbZzutGnM8TFk0tca_wnzlywSTW64WQCKgB/s1600/13248546_10106546189650283_4162742383890407727_o.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-12hcYjtmAxA/V1HIJa_hljI/AAAAAAAAfiA/K7FGUg-Pf8AFlOrsMLJunaUkx8n3fwaZgCKgB/s1600/13220761_10106546189106373_5820959225915811691_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-12hcYjtmAxA/V1HIJa_hljI/AAAAAAAAfiA/K7FGUg-Pf8AFlOrsMLJunaUkx8n3fwaZgCKgB/s1600/13220761_10106546189106373_5820959225915811691_o.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZ1ffxDikyU/V1HIJ4zEfxI/AAAAAAAAfiA/QIv9PMNqpgMFitnii2enYAlHLerDxBYzACKgB/s1600/13227615_10106546189775033_6307938907419379564_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZ1ffxDikyU/V1HIJ4zEfxI/AAAAAAAAfiA/QIv9PMNqpgMFitnii2enYAlHLerDxBYzACKgB/s1600/13227615_10106546189775033_6307938907419379564_o.jpg" /></a></div><br />"Diddy" - your word for your sister, Zoe. Not to be confused with "Dah-dee", a distinction we, as your immediate family members, can usually make but others cannot. Perhaps because we occasionally call her "Sissy", which I'll admit is easier for the toddler tongue to imitate than the buzz of the "Z" that starts your sister's name. Particularly sweet on the mornings, most mornings, when you wake up earlier than she and must wait around for her slumber to lift, making do with boring old Mom or Dad until the most exciting member of our tribe awakes.<br /><br />"Nah" - snack, particularly one you have spotted with your little eye or when you come running upon hearing the crinkle of plastic being opened.<br /><br />"Bee" - blankie, a recently developed comfort object. Thankfully, it can be any "bee" and not a particular one. When you go down for nap or night night, this is your favorite thing to grab as we rock and snuggle.<br /><br />"Nigh-nigh" - you eagerly head toward nap time and night time, as long as you are sufficiently tired (not difficult when you have your older sister running you ragged all day). The other night, you even kind of asked for it when you stepped down from your chair after dinner, laying your head on the seat. "Nigh-nigh" you sighed, and it was clear you were more than ready. You know when we talk pajamas and brushing teeth and giving night night hugs and kisses that one of your most treasured times of day is coming - snuggle time. My little introvert baby.<br /><br />"Side!" - always with an exclamation point when you hear that it might happen, always with many tears and gnashing of teeth when it becomes apparent that it will not be happening. Outside is your favorite place, and I am so glad that we are now at the point where I can send you out on your own and watch from the kitchen window, or charge your older sister with keeping an eye on you (she's more than happy to be in charge of you, though I usually try to keep her focused on being your friend and sister, not your keeper).<br /><br />"Ahp! Ahp!" - when you need to be lifted to our bed, or a couch, or a chair, or up into our arms. As with your sister, this is used interchangeably with "Dow" (down) - the point is, you want whichever position you are not in currently.<br /><br />"Nnnnnnno!" - your sister told me the other day "Mama, Joel is practicing saying 'no'," as indeed you were. Always the long emphasis on the end, often with an added push away of whatever object or physical touch is being offered to you.<br /><br />"Bah-bah" - bumble bee. Your grandma introduced me to some precious tickling rhymes that my grandfather, the impish jokester, had used with her growing up, and your dad and I have adopted them and added to them. We get you and your sister while laid out on the bed, while sitting on the couch, or whenever we need to distract you from something, particularly a path leading toward Whinesville. You have recently started&nbsp;tickling us, using your pointed finger to represent the Bumble Bee in the rhyme, circling your arm to make it fly toward its destination. A few examples of the rhymes:<br /><br /><i>Bumble bee, bumble bee, come from the farm&nbsp;</i><br /><i>to sting little Joel right under the arm!</i><br /><i><br />Bumble bee, bumble bee, come from Quebec&nbsp;</i><br /><i>to sting little Zoe right in the neck!</i><br /><i><br />Bumble bee, bumble bee, from Winnipeg&nbsp;</i><br /><i>come to sting Joel right in the leg!</i><br /><i><br /> Bumble bee, bumble bee, come from the jelly&nbsp;</i><br /><i>to sting little Zoe right in the belly!</i><br /><i><br /> Bumble bee, bumble bee, come from a rose&nbsp;</i><br /><i>to sting little Joel right in the toes!</i><br /><br />Turns out that some Canadian cities make for good tickling rhymes - who knew?<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IpXckD6eXaI/V1HIJGADVhI/AAAAAAAAfhg/EvEMROaeryg-DRVdpuQ7V3FVHuJKsTAzACKgB/s1600/13227443_10106546194405753_219230689289038578_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IpXckD6eXaI/V1HIJGADVhI/AAAAAAAAfhg/EvEMROaeryg-DRVdpuQ7V3FVHuJKsTAzACKgB/s1600/13227443_10106546194405753_219230689289038578_o.jpg" /></a></div><br />I love that I get to be a mama for a second time. You and your sister and your Dad are such gifts to me from a God who loves beyond comprehension. These days are hard and full and good and I know I will miss them. I already miss them, some days, when you and your sister are asleep and I want to just breathe you in for a little bit.<br /><br />Love you forever,<br /><br />Mama</div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-27521765668694789292016-06-01T17:24:00.002-07:002017-10-18T19:36:35.877-07:00Tomatoes. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FJfAmhIazxQ/V09gls2wALI/AAAAAAAAffQ/RP9OeAy6gHISHNrr8l4wOPm9XwcefJefgCLcB/s1600/DSC_0200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FJfAmhIazxQ/V09gls2wALI/AAAAAAAAffQ/RP9OeAy6gHISHNrr8l4wOPm9XwcefJefgCLcB/s640/DSC_0200.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet 100 Tomatoes. These rarely make it indoors - pop 'em in my mouth, just like candy.</td></tr></tbody></table>It's my third summer at attempting to grow tomatoes, and I think I'm finally getting the hang of it enough to not outright kill them. It's the first summer where we will be around to really enjoy the peak of tomato season. I think I could grow an entire backyard of tomatoes and never get tired of them, or at least never get tired of giving them away. And, though you can put them in all sorts of great recipes, I honestly love the simplicity of picking one ripe off the vine, slicing it up, sprinkling it with a wee bit of salt, and eating it fresh.<br /><br />This post is entirely made of pictures of tomatoes, because I honestly just can't get enough of how fun it is to finally be growing some of our own vegetables. I'm working on gleaning some lessons as I continue to garden, and I think the one that God is trying to get across to me right now is that in order to grow you must be watered. Without water, leaves of the plants curl up, wither and eventually the plant dies. Sometimes it's amazing how long they can hold on without much water, but eventually, the fate is the same. Watering is the one thing I have changed to be more consistent with in caring for the tomatoes this season. It seems so simple, but I'm such a stubborn one. I don't always want to sit still and drink. But the beauty that comes with regular watering is beyond compare. Love these colors. Even the pre-ripened greenery is gorgeous - the anticipation for it to be ready enough to pluck from the vine is so much like the anticipation on Christmas Eve, and each ripened tomato like a gift. Hoping to see many good gifts this season.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h6tWINX7zkE/V095PYa5lpI/AAAAAAAAfgE/j_tmxDdJGR0Vc-IZBoJF65wVTlL_RtWOQCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h6tWINX7zkE/V095PYa5lpI/AAAAAAAAfgE/j_tmxDdJGR0Vc-IZBoJF65wVTlL_RtWOQCLcB/s400/image%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L to R: 2 Early Girls, 3 Black Princes</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rukpnyk9TvE/V095OmfIFZI/AAAAAAAAfgA/q_PHejWbPtcALCNcnWBOMYiEDtG8hCxLwCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rukpnyk9TvE/V095OmfIFZI/AAAAAAAAfgA/q_PHejWbPtcALCNcnWBOMYiEDtG8hCxLwCLcB/s400/image%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet 100 Tomatoes</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MNSeaBM0j3A/V095Pe0HC5I/AAAAAAAAfgI/JVEj4t10lmMkBnbav1V_6idHAJsWVj0yQCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MNSeaBM0j3A/V095Pe0HC5I/AAAAAAAAfgI/JVEj4t10lmMkBnbav1V_6idHAJsWVj0yQCLcB/s640/image%2B%25283%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top: Purple Cherokee, Bottom: Early Girl</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4ysgxrhFH3k/V095QNITmlI/AAAAAAAAfgM/6OgWlw0DCN8OcEqUGEe1x_67ei4flJfPQCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4ysgxrhFH3k/V095QNITmlI/AAAAAAAAfgM/6OgWlw0DCN8OcEqUGEe1x_67ei4flJfPQCLcB/s640/image%2B%25284%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first Black Prince of the season</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TPaOTBtTQZk/V095RKvZ7nI/AAAAAAAAfgQ/3kBiMZ9Ji8U7KQlyF_Bv5T66na0DoZ8IQCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TPaOTBtTQZk/V095RKvZ7nI/AAAAAAAAfgQ/3kBiMZ9Ji8U7KQlyF_Bv5T66na0DoZ8IQCLcB/s640/image%2B%25285%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first Early Girl of the season</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nPmrPGBuNps/V095RZqjgyI/AAAAAAAAfgU/kytIOqPLVZYcs_p-lke4eEGADY48hXKhQCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25286%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nPmrPGBuNps/V095RZqjgyI/AAAAAAAAfgU/kytIOqPLVZYcs_p-lke4eEGADY48hXKhQCLcB/s640/image%2B%25286%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eager gardening apprentice&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TgVobgfOT9o/V095Sc411AI/AAAAAAAAfgY/gEZrJdDPXhAFipI39cNbXt6nANG559QOgCLcB/s1600/image%2B%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TgVobgfOT9o/V095Sc411AI/AAAAAAAAfgY/gEZrJdDPXhAFipI39cNbXt6nANG559QOgCLcB/s640/image%2B%25287%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early Girls on the vine</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U51yVKizDUs/V095aUgFmZI/AAAAAAAAfgk/c8khXBHheK822yNCj67YS_PiqbJ84_7ewCLcB/s1600/DSC_0196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-U51yVKizDUs/V095aUgFmZI/AAAAAAAAfgk/c8khXBHheK822yNCj67YS_PiqbJ84_7ewCLcB/s400/DSC_0196.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet 100s on the vine</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--fJQbxph3AU/V095ZvHxIMI/AAAAAAAAfgc/V9a4xOu0aQ8mXbZoN4r4xL4ufzjxzjTRQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--fJQbxph3AU/V095ZvHxIMI/AAAAAAAAfgc/V9a4xOu0aQ8mXbZoN4r4xL4ufzjxzjTRQCLcB/s640/DSC_0198.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unripened Black Prince tomatoes on the vine&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3tHzgftsH1A/V095aGRC_CI/AAAAAAAAfgg/bTZhRouGWzkWn6htfirmszZP8JXLpMPyQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3tHzgftsH1A/V095aGRC_CI/AAAAAAAAfgg/bTZhRouGWzkWn6htfirmszZP8JXLpMPyQCLcB/s400/DSC_0199.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unripened Black Prince tomato</td></tr></tbody></table>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-62717618436978593442016-06-01T09:22:00.003-07:002017-10-19T17:32:07.093-07:0010 People Who Are My Everyday Heroes as A Parent of Young Kids<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>This post was originally published by <a href="http://parent.co/">Parent.co</a>. You can find the entire version <a href="http://www.parent.co/10-people-who-are-my-everyday-heroes-as-a-parent-of-young-kids/" target="_blank">here</a>.&nbsp;</i></div><br />It takes a village to raise a child - it always has, it always will. Parents can often feel very alone in the process of raising children, and to a certain degree there is validity to those claims. An increasingly globalized world means we often don't live close to family members (my own family lives three time zones away from the nearest grandparents), and in some cases we don't even get along with family members nearby. It can be easy to forget how much help we truly have around us - I've certainly fallen into this trap.<br /><br />On a daily basis, I rely on the help of many people who likely see themselves as doing nothing extraordinary, but to me it can feel pretty monumentally helpful. These people are my everyday heroes - you may even be one of them:<br /><b><br /></b><b>1. The grocery cart swipers. </b>These are the folks who, while walking through the parking lot on their way in to the grocery store, notice the struggle bus that is me trying to load two children back into car seats and ask if they can take my cart. What kind of angel are you, dear stranger? Yes, YES! What a win - you get a cart, I get to schlep my kids and groceries home about 30 seconds earlier - a 30 seconds that might make all the difference today in my maintenance of sanity. Bonus points if these are the same people who offer their empty carts to a just-arrived parent and their crew.<br /><br /><b>2. The meal bringers. </b>Whether it's because we have a new baby or our family has the latest case of feels-like-death illness, these are my chicken-soup people. They know that food might as well be a love language, and may or may not know the weight lifted in not having to figure out what the next meal will be. They know it doesn't have to be fancy or even homemade to communicate solidarity and warmth.<br /><br /><b>3. The caretakers. </b>The people who watch my kids on occasion - parents morning out or evening out at local churches, grandparents, babysitters, fellow friends. My village.&nbsp;Even if I'm paying $10 per kid for 3-4 hours (side note: so cheap!) this much-craved alone time is the time I look forward to so much. One of our local churches has a weekly parents morning out on Wednesday mornings, and it became so popular that the sign-up list fills up within an hour of being opened. The poor church secretary - also a hero of mine.<br /><br /><b>4. The February Christmas light take-down crew. </b>People who see a need you had overlooked and offer to fix it for you.&nbsp;I know some folks might take offense to being offered help with something like this. Like - <i>should I be ashamed that someone noticed my Christmas lights are still up?</i>&nbsp;My advice to you: lay down thy pride, sisters and brothers. There is nothing like the swallowing of pride that happens as a parent to young children. Had they not offered, it is entirely possible those lights would have remained up until June. Or December. Whatever...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Head over to <a href="http://www.parent.co/10-people-who-are-my-everyday-heroes-as-a-parent-of-young-kids/" target="_blank">Parent.co to read the rest of this post</a>. Thanks!</i></div><br /><br />Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-22711690366760635052016-05-27T14:34:00.000-07:002017-10-19T17:31:02.401-07:00To The Barista at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, the Everyday Hero Who Made My Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HOS1l-gbFAM/V0i3MRBQbsI/AAAAAAAAfeI/rNC_wctlUgASmPL6AJY_k8VJc8OXPw0VQCLcB/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HOS1l-gbFAM/V0i3MRBQbsI/AAAAAAAAfeI/rNC_wctlUgASmPL6AJY_k8VJc8OXPw0VQCLcB/s1600/image.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gifts from one of the kindest baristas.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div>You totally didn't have to do what you did. But you totally did. And it made such a difference to me, a mama who rarely has all her ducks in a row. &nbsp;Today I just happened to forget one of the more important ducks: the wallet duck. <i>Headdesk.&nbsp;</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I almost didn't <a href="http://www.coffeebean.com/" target="_blank">come here today to write</a>. It's not exactly budget-friendly to purchase coffee or food on a regular basis so that I can have an energetic yet quiet enough space <i>away from my home and my precious people there</i>&nbsp;to process my thoughts, to write them down, to get them out here. In my childhood I was brought up to try as much as possible <i>not</i>&nbsp;to spend unnecessary money, and purchases like this might be seen as unnecessary.&nbsp;But here sounded just a tad better, even if it was further away than my other options. These are precious quiet creative hours, so the location counts. It counts so much. Plus, I was really looking forward to the chocolate chunk muffin that is my weakness here.<br /><a name='more'></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I walked in, excited and prepared for the four solid hours that I will have to write, to organize, to respond to emails to to submit essays on the chance (the <i>chance!</i>) that they will be accepted for publication. I'm only at the beginning of this writing journey, but I have received good news and "try again" news (and worse, no news) in my inbox this week. It's exhilarating, and it's exhausting. It doesn't always feel like I'm choosing to do a responsible thing with my time - four hours in a coffee shop? Writing? For something you only <i>might</i>&nbsp;get paid for? But, for my soul and my mind this is good. It's therapy. It's a massage. It's good and honorable work.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>So when I ordered coffee and then opted to treat myself to a chocolate chunk muffin as well, only to look down into my purse and realize to my horror that I'd left my wallet at home <i>in the diaper bag</i>&nbsp;that has <i>actually</i> become my purse, I was a little crushed. It would take at least fifteen precious minutes to drive back home, and then fifteen minutes to drive back here. Half of a precious hour of creative time, loss of energy and motivation. It wouldn't make sense to come back here and claim the yummy chocolate chunk muffin at all, actually. So I said what made sense: "I'm so sorry, I forgot my wallet at home. I have to go home and get it."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Don't worry, I've got it," you said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Wait, what?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's fine, once a month we get to give a free drink, so this one's yours."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Wait, really? Oh my gosh! Wow! Thank you!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I wish I'd gushed a little more, because seriously, to win the lottery of free coffee on the day you've forgotten your wallet is a pretty great lottery to win. Especially for a mama who has precious little time. I also expected that because it was the cup of coffee that was free, the chocolate chunk muffin was out of the deal. No biggie - I was getting free coffee, gratefully. Plus, I really don't need a chocolate chunk muffin, like, ever.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>But when you set my coffee (regular sized, not downgraded to a small or anything) out on the bar, there was a bag with the chocolate chunk muffin right next to it.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>What?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Wait - you're not including the muffin, are you?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, no problem! Enjoy!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I am floored. Also, I am struggling, because I have a really, <i>really </i>hard time receiving things that I have not paid for myself. Seriously, very difficult. (Like - I haven't even gone over to put cream in my coffee because that would be receiving something that wasn't mine, right? Issues, people, issues.)</div><div><br /></div><div>So, here I sit with my chocolate chunk muffin and what is perhaps the most delicious cup of coffee ever because it was given with kindness, writing a story about this day-sweetening interaction because I have been given the best kind of gift: one given unexpectedly and without expectation. Rare.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the articles I wrote recently, one I'm waiting to hear back on, was a list of people who are my everyday heroes as a parent. If it gets accepted, I'm going to have to add "baristas who give me free coffee <i>and chocolate chunk muffins&nbsp;</i>when I've forgotten my wallet" to that list. Thank you, everyday hero, for rescuing my afternoon. Your kindness goes further than you know.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sincerely,</div><div>One Grateful Writer-Mama&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. Pretty much can't ever choose Starbucks when there's a CB&amp;TL nearby, now. Way to win a customer.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-27009724799106512682016-05-22T22:16:00.002-07:002017-10-18T19:39:15.738-07:00Recipe: Rhubarb Sauce (on ice cream!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f_1G6z5E1h4/V0KLguh5CiI/AAAAAAAAfdM/BREhUn_v0N4Scx2pSPiuUJ2PPAkyAqs6ACLcB/s1600/Rhubarb%2BSauce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f_1G6z5E1h4/V0KLguh5CiI/AAAAAAAAfdM/BREhUn_v0N4Scx2pSPiuUJ2PPAkyAqs6ACLcB/s1600/Rhubarb%2BSauce.jpg" /></a></div><div>Having grown up living in the same state as both sets of my own grandparents, I never really pictured what life would be like raising my own children three time zones away from theirs. We have been fortunate so far to have had grandparents visits several times since moving out here, but creating shared experiences between grandparents and grandchildren that keep bonds strong in the in between times can be difficult. One of my constant hopes is that my children will grow deep relationships with their grandparents despite the geographical distance.<br /><a name='more'></a></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nvXWvmMvDKE/V0KFo-x_d5I/AAAAAAAAfcM/grZoO-BSDdoWVN5arj12k3nEboKmyln8ACLcB/s1600/DSC_0736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nvXWvmMvDKE/V0KFo-x_d5I/AAAAAAAAfcM/grZoO-BSDdoWVN5arj12k3nEboKmyln8ACLcB/s1600/DSC_0736.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3XA6kColM78/V0KG-eFtvCI/AAAAAAAAfcc/wKLIN8oPMLMyg9QZFtLb5kIVzFGQ2Jy0wCLcB/s1600/11146468_10105086949878483_8416614346636201855_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3XA6kColM78/V0KG-eFtvCI/AAAAAAAAfcc/wKLIN8oPMLMyg9QZFtLb5kIVzFGQ2Jy0wCLcB/s1600/11146468_10105086949878483_8416614346636201855_o.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_DkCYVFhtlE/V0KG-f_W-NI/AAAAAAAAfcY/s47pcSefbUgLM_8qBnLBxmlffq3JhcWeACLcB/s1600/12244293_10105885218277213_2401899341237185189_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_DkCYVFhtlE/V0KG-f_W-NI/AAAAAAAAfcY/s47pcSefbUgLM_8qBnLBxmlffq3JhcWeACLcB/s1600/12244293_10105885218277213_2401899341237185189_o.jpg" /></a></div><div>I'm thankful to be living in an era of such technological advances as FaceTime, Google Hangouts and Skype, but I'm always open ears to other creative ways to connect the two generations. Packages in the mail seem to work well - my mother-in-law sends hand-sewn clothing, my sister-in-law sent several boxes of homemade spring treats, including delicious macaroons, my mom sends several occasional holiday-oriented goodies on Valentine's Day, Easter, and Halloween.<br /><div><br /></div><div>My daughter is now old enough to carry on a FaceTime conversation without much assistance from me, including bringing my phone into the bathroom with her, carefully setting it on the bathroom counter, and using the facilities as she carries on a conversation with my parents. Kids these days, I'll tell ya. After a recent FaceTime session which included sharing information on the status of their respective garden vegetables, my mom told my daughter that she would send her some of the rhubarb she had picked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Within a couple days, we received a small box in the mail, rhubarb inside wrapped heavily in plastic wrap along with a postcard with instructions to my kids about how to make the rhubarb sauce to put over vanilla ice cream.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O4irjkvuDEY/V0KHYEf1kfI/AAAAAAAAfcg/5ZKLDA17wYMQ2S51h6dxI2fypBVPY4kSQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O4irjkvuDEY/V0KHYEf1kfI/AAAAAAAAfcg/5ZKLDA17wYMQ2S51h6dxI2fypBVPY4kSQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0124.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">As the package arrived on Friday afternoon, it made a perfect Saturday morning activity at home. Pictures and recipe below! What creative ways have you found to move beyond FaceTime connections with long distance parents or grandparents?</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eQpIje04EOM/V0KIUqMMg4I/AAAAAAAAfc4/uXOtyMLK1HcFsi_8uyzklb9FIQG17kkrgCLcB/s1600/DSC_0128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eQpIje04EOM/V0KIUqMMg4I/AAAAAAAAfc4/uXOtyMLK1HcFsi_8uyzklb9FIQG17kkrgCLcB/s1600/DSC_0128.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 1: Wash and cut rhubarb into small pieces - about 1-2 cups of cut rhubarb.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DAvuLL2eCeg/V0KIUqZdJPI/AAAAAAAAfc0/vjsKEkxd4dkQcxoGj6lIQjam-4R_SCfNQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DAvuLL2eCeg/V0KIUqZdJPI/AAAAAAAAfc0/vjsKEkxd4dkQcxoGj6lIQjam-4R_SCfNQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0135.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 2: Add 1/4 c water to saucepan, add rhubarb.<br /><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E60gv34fYkQ/V0KIUUY7k_I/AAAAAAAAfcw/VmaPKCZqoR8et878rxUtAlGkzshGgDBEQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-E60gv34fYkQ/V0KIUUY7k_I/AAAAAAAAfcw/VmaPKCZqoR8et878rxUtAlGkzshGgDBEQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0146.JPG" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mnzxmhxg1ZY/V0KIVfRfeGI/AAAAAAAAfdE/DljEFKsxrFcNT2pWb566LbJq36x1iUyhQCKgB/s1600/DSC_0149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mnzxmhxg1ZY/V0KIVfRfeGI/AAAAAAAAfdE/DljEFKsxrFcNT2pWb566LbJq36x1iUyhQCKgB/s1600/DSC_0149.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 3: Add 1/8-1/4 cup of sugar, and smile!</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2RyUdsOthCA/V0KIVsorq0I/AAAAAAAAfdE/8AtOFmRDmlsohmFUSyOyX1fHuDQdKNy-QCKgB/s1600/DSC_0154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2RyUdsOthCA/V0KIVsorq0I/AAAAAAAAfdE/8AtOFmRDmlsohmFUSyOyX1fHuDQdKNy-QCKgB/s1600/DSC_0154.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 4: Simmer all on low heat until rhubarb has thick, saucy consistency<br />about 10-20 minutes.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-htgMC8mk0vc/V0KMXgrM4RI/AAAAAAAAfdc/x6nOoYj6X5UFnbH6tZ6rF8cRgIEHkOgRACKgB/s1600/DSC_0187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-htgMC8mk0vc/V0KMXgrM4RI/AAAAAAAAfdc/x6nOoYj6X5UFnbH6tZ6rF8cRgIEHkOgRACKgB/s1600/DSC_0187.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Step 5: Serve over ice cream. I know it doesn't look terribly appetizing in this<br />picture, but trust me...it is!</td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-53777282393061759422016-05-16T18:04:00.001-07:002017-10-18T19:38:52.623-07:00Unsolicited tears.<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DD2aXCr_x4E/Vzptt0oxi8I/AAAAAAAAfac/91cLzAwuE2E0npxAVXTeBY0PIXAwT5cXwCLcB/s1600/DSC_0971%2B-%2BEdited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DD2aXCr_x4E/Vzptt0oxi8I/AAAAAAAAfac/91cLzAwuE2E0npxAVXTeBY0PIXAwT5cXwCLcB/s1600/DSC_0971%2B-%2BEdited.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the face of a mom (and daughter) who'd prefer your unsolicited encouragement before your unsolicited advice. Otherwise, you may receive our gift of tears.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I need your unsolicited encouragement over your unsolicited advice.</span></div><b id="docs-internal-guid-be35208c-bbf7-04d0-0e6f-1709a8acdd4e" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s what I wish I had said to the man. Why does it always take a week and a half to arrive at what you </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wish</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> you had said? </span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It had started like this: my husband, two young children and I had just finished a good, but long, week at a summer family camp - the last installment of our many good, but long, summer activities. I was ready to jump back into the welcoming arms of the school year routine, sleep in my own bed, use my own bathroom, heck, even cook in my own kitchen again.</span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All the families boarded and were settling into seats on the ferry that would take us back to the mainland. We were all, perhaps, feeling the bittersweetness of leaving such a beloved place of rest where there was limited electricity and no cell phone service - a rare world of stillness and undistracted presence with each other and God. We would try to carry the beauty of that back to the mainland with us, for at least a </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">few</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> hours. </span><br /><a name='more'></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was exhausted and sitting next to my husband as he held our baby son, our daughter slowly falling asleep between us. I wanted nothing more than to lay my head back and sleep as we traveled back toward home. A family nap time on the ferry sounded like a perfect way to make peace with the end of summer. </span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A man whose acquaintance I’d made that week smiled as he sat down next to me. His face had a kind but intent look. I smiled at him. And almost immediately I regretted it. I wonder if my smile sometimes makes people </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">too</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> comfortable, as if I am welcoming their presence and their words when all I intend to offer is a bit of kindness and then retreat back to my own thoughts. </span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You have just the two kids, right?” he began.</span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I nodded and out slipped another smile. We took a few moments to make small talk about our families and work situations - he and his wife had two older kids, she worked as a professor at a university, he had run a business from home while caring for their children when they were younger. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So, I wasn’t sure how to say this, but I have a book I wanted to recommend to you - I’ve written down the title here.” He handed me a slip of paper and continued, “My wife and I noticed that you and your husband are very patient parents - my wife heard you in the bathroom with your daughter the other day. Kids can be very strong willed.”</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be sure, the week was a challenge in many ways. My three year-old, who could get her pre-school degree in negotiating if that were possible, was out of her element in every way. We’d had at least one major meltdown that week that happened right in the middle of camp, in front of all the families gathered together for a picture. There’s nothing like an uncontrollable toddler to boost a mama’s confidence. It had been a week where everything was new: environment, food, people, sleeping arrangements. The children’s program director had been kind enough to acknowledge this fact to the whole group, and encouraged everyone not to fall into the trap of forgetting what so many changes all at once can do to young children, to not judge each other’s parenting. I remember wanting to run up and tackle her with a fellow mama-bear hug. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She got it</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, there I was at the end of that wonderful week, staring down at the scribble of a book title that had something to do with controlling the strong-willed child. I was in the middle of the one-sided conversation that most young parents dread: unsolicited parenting advice. It came thinly veiled in the form of a book recommendation sprinkled with a little life experience. I’m not against parenting advice, and I do believe he meant well, but I had not asked for this conversation, I barely knew this man, and I was tired. The worst part? I managed to hold back tears as he gave voice and validation to the doubts that fill my head on a daily basis. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were doing something wrong</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were messing this up.</span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not usually a weeper, but looking back now, I wish that I had let those tears just flow. Instead, I sat there frozen, smiling, nodding, absorbing his words and sinking into myself. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But, if you get my smile, it seems only fair that you get my tears, too. Why didn’t I show him my tears?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I want to model for my daughter and my son this idea that in addition to their smiles, giggles and squeals of delight there is also room for their tears, hurt and frustration. We don’t get to choose when our tears will come, or how the world will receive our tears, but I can’t think of a time when I’ve regretted coming close to my children in the middle of their weeping. After all, this is what God has done for me. Tears don’t drive God away - I am told that he keeps track of all my sorrows, collects all my tears in his bottle, records each one in his book. </span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A friend was once told that she had the “gift of tears” by a counselor. We still stigmatize crying and weeping in our culture as being symbolic of weakness (I’m always a little bummed when I hear children being told not to cry), but I love the way that this description turns that stigma on its head a bit. I’m often tempted to see tears as getting in the way of a difficult conversation instead of being representative of the deep impact of the conversation on my well-being. They can speak for me, they can help me understand myself, they can force me to admit to how much I may be hurting, as much as I’d like to just let things roll off my back.</span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sir</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I think I would have said, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">your ill-timed advice is hurting me. I don’t know you very well, and I know you don’t know me very well, but right now, in the trenches of motherhood, what I need the most from you is your unsolicited encouragement over your unsolicited advice. </span></div><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tears usually precede very truth-filled words, and so I wonder if it would have turned out differently that day if I hadn’t been afraid of letting them flow a little bit. If I hadn’t been afraid of making a bit of a scene, of being an adult woman crying tired, unsolicited tears to put a halt to unsolicited advice. </span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: &quot;times new roman&quot;; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder what might have turned out differently that day if I had received God’s good gift of tears. </span></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-49909038882687102652016-05-06T15:23:00.002-07:002017-10-18T19:38:17.926-07:00Be My Village<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Cjk9ajhCkU/Vy0WxXYaM2I/AAAAAAAAfVg/zkVtXUK4Up0Jbbk-GIdLNjbYRrhBuQ-_gCLcB/s1600/10304566_10152414010315999_675470348655811485_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="444" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0Cjk9ajhCkU/Vy0WxXYaM2I/AAAAAAAAfVg/zkVtXUK4Up0Jbbk-GIdLNjbYRrhBuQ-_gCLcB/s640/10304566_10152414010315999_675470348655811485_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me (the curly top), my sister and my mom c. 1989</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>"I got it," my husband said slowly as he ended the call. We both smiled and hugged each other tightly. It was his first offer for a college teaching position after getting his PhD a few months earlier. In an economy that was still in a holding pattern after suffering a severe blow several years earlier, it was welcome news.<br /><br />We'd also received some welcome news a few weeks prior to that: our first baby was on her way. I was teaching high school Spanish at the time, and while I was certain that I loved my particular job more than I had any other up until that point, I also knew I'd want to be home with my baby longer than the maximum 12 weeks of maternity leave that I'd be able to get as a teacher.<br /><br />The only news that was a bit unwelcome at the time was this: my husband's new job required us to move three time zones away to Southern California - far from the MidWest towns each of us had grown up in, and far from our parents who still lived in those hometowns. It was even opposite the East Coast where my husband's sister had lived for over ten years.<br /><a name='more'></a><br /><br />We moved on August 1, 2012, almost two months before our daughter was born. We hired <a href="http://www.kymthedoula.com/" target="_blank">a doula</a> almost as soon as we arrived, not only because we had no idea what the birth process would look like, but also because we wouldn't have any guarantee that family members could get there in time for our daughter's birth, and we had no friends in the area. We really needed someone who we trusted to guide us into the world of first-time parenthood.<br /><br />Thankfully, my parents were able to fly out and arrived a full four days before our daughter made her debut on the 8th day past her due date. There were three weeks of in-house help from them as I learned how to breastfeed, as my husband and I learned how to bounce her just right to get her to fall asleep, how to stroke her up her spine to release burps, how to bathe her, how to get her into the baby carrier, how to survive. They had opportunities to hold her, rock her, sing to her, kiss her as I caught up on sleep during the day. It all left me full on ugly crying after I dropped them off at the airport and drove away, envisioning how all of their future visits would end this way. My mother-in-law arrived the following day for another week of help and holding her first grandchild. One whole month of solid help. And then, there we were - on our own in a place that was still new to us, where we still knew few people, where we were still finding our rhythm.<br /><br />Growing up, I'd had one set of grandparents who lived in the same town until I was 3. We even lived with them for a short period while our new house was being built. I had another set of grandparents who lived about a 5 hour drive away, further north. I didn't realize, until I was expecting my own children, how much this experience had shaped my hopes and expectations for what my own children (and I) would experience in relationship with their grandparents. I think I especially grieved the loss of easy safety-net people nearby who we could call and who would come at the drop of a hat.<br /><br />Of course I've learned over the past few years that that last part - the safety net - can be composed of people who are not blood relatives, and can be found anywhere. Friends who we came to know through church especially became this for us. They had to - we had no one else nearby.<br /><br />But there have also been times where I have been acutely reminded of the ways in which our lives look a little different from many of the people around us, most of whom grew up here or within driving distance of the town we live in.<br /><br />It's hard when the women at my MOPS group encourage everyone to "take a look in your mom's closet" for the ugly Christmas sweater we need for an upcoming celebration.<br /><br />It's hard when friends talk about going on spontaneous lunch or dinner or coffee dates with their moms, or when their kids' grandmother spontaneously calls and asks to take the kids for the morning or for an overnight.<br /><br />It's hard when I am invited to a mom's day out to celebrate a friend's birthday, and everyone else seems to have grandparents eagerly awaiting an opportunity to watch their grandchildren (for free) for an entire day. I have to swallow my pride and call around to find a friend or babysitter willing to watch my baby for an entire day so I can go.<br /><br />It's hard when it's a given that on long holiday weekends, like Thanksgiving or Easter, most of our friends will be having large dinner celebrations with their families, and while they kindly and sincerely and with much love invite us, we will always feel a little like guests on those holiday weekends, no matter how much they try to treat us as part of the family.<br /><br />It's hard on days when I am sick and my husband must work. If we lived closer to family I would ask them to come take the kids, but since there is potential that my kids are contagious with my sickness, I can't ask any of my friends to do that.<br /><br />It's hard when being 3 time zones away means FaceTime dates with grandparents tend to always happen at inconvenient times. Early in the morning here? Mid-morning errands are happening there. Nap time here? Early evening dinner prep there. Post-dinner pre-bedtime here? Late evening there. But at least we <i>have</i> FaceTime, right?<br /><br />It's hard when it's not a given that we will be with family this Christmas because the combination of time zone changes, air travel in the middle of MidWest winters with a high potential for delays, disrupting our children's daily routine for 10 days, and rising airplane ticket prices for a family of four has made us decide to stay in our own home this Christmas.<br /><br />It's hard when family members do visit but in order to make the high cost of the airplane ticket worth it they stay for 10 or more days in your small house, and you must adjust to each other's idiosyncrasies.<br /><br />It's hard when friends talk about how they love but perhaps don't get along with their nearby family members, and I want to empathize and say "That's hard!" because it truly, truly is hard in a way I can't even quite fathom, but in the back of my mind I also am thinking "But at least your family lives nearby and in an emergency they'd probably totally swoop in to help."<br /><br />It's hard when I allow myself to think far into the future and wonder what it will look like to care for my parents and my husband's parents as they age, and wondering how much of that responsibility for my parents will fall on my sister and brother who still live nearby.<br /><br />It's hard when I feel guilty for throwing all of these pity-parties for myself when it's not a given for a lot of people that even if family lives close that they have a relationship that is functional enough to ask for help with kids. Or when I remember that at least I live in the same country as my family, unlike several acquaintances who live across the world from the families they haven't seen in years. Or when I remember that my parents are still alive. There are a lot of people who have even less family backup than I do.<br /><br />There are also a lot of people, in an increasingly globalized world, who are in the same boat. When I meet these friends where I live, I always sense an automatic kinship: we know. We know what it's like to feel the sense of loss - ideally, having family who want to help you and that you love nearby is good. But we also know the beauty that is found in having to set aside your pity parties and ask for help, straight up help. To tell people that they <i>are</i>&nbsp;your family here because you have no one else. To tell people that you really <i>do</i>&nbsp;need them to be your village, that when your family is all down for the count with the worst stomach flu ever, you really <i>do</i>&nbsp;need someone to make a grocery store run for Gatorade, disinfectant wipes, Saltines and chicken noodle soup.<br /><br />There was so much beauty after my second baby, my son, was born two years later and I unashamedly wrote on Facebook that yes, we needed meals, and that yes, if people were willing to bring one, we would take it with much gratitude. My parents were visiting at the time, and I could have decided not to take any meals because, well, we had the help - right? But our meal calendar <i>filled up completely</i>. God met our need for family-like care even though we were so far from our places of origin. God has done that, honestly, ever since we moved here. He has broken down my pride about asking for help. He has used people to meet our needs for childcare, family-like relationships, people who love and care for us deeply who are geographically close. We do have a village here. We do have family here. It looks different than what I imagined...but it's still every bit as beautiful.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-05BeaNR59yc/Vy1ugdrkBXI/AAAAAAAAfV8/SbmNsWr6lUsI-5VLX7xzZmK3GvKvUEAdwCLcB/s1600/Be%2BMy%2BVillage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-05BeaNR59yc/Vy1ugdrkBXI/AAAAAAAAfV8/SbmNsWr6lUsI-5VLX7xzZmK3GvKvUEAdwCLcB/s400/Be%2BMy%2BVillage.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-40380591108362256252016-04-05T21:52:00.001-07:002017-10-18T19:37:19.612-07:00adventure and miracles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H1YTYuZNs7c/VwSOW8Z9SlI/AAAAAAAAfPY/5iB6FxltuO4NClnEIxhJ70M5rj25Z9vjQ/s1600/IMG_5502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H1YTYuZNs7c/VwSOW8Z9SlI/AAAAAAAAfPY/5iB6FxltuO4NClnEIxhJ70M5rj25Z9vjQ/s1600/IMG_5502.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, we said "yes" to a <a href="http://www.metrolinktrains.com/">long train ride</a> to a place we'd never been before. We said yes to an adventure that required us to get up earlier, to not know every possible scenario or every possible outcome, to give up quite a bit of the façade of control, to enter unprepared. We said, I said, "even if we want to go home at noon</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">, we can't." Like any good commitment, it felt brave <i>and</i> absolutely crazy. Absolutely crazy-brave.&nbsp;</span><br /><a name='more'></a><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were met with miracles. Miracles like smiles at four in the afternoon even without solid naps. Miracles like just enough <a href="http://www.zoomars.com/">constant distraction and space to move</a> to keep their minds and hands occupied. Miracles like a waitress who loves kids. Miracles like mommy having enough patience to respond gently when we started getting whimpery near the end. Miracles like <a href="http://www.hiddenhousecoffee.com/">coffee</a>. Miracles like a conductor who guided us to a train connection that got us home a full 20 minutes earlier than expected (and boy doesn't each minute count!). Miracles that don't seem like miracles unless you know your children and know their limits and <i>know</i> that you have gone full-steam ahead right past them and everything could just fall apart at any given moment...and yet we are still having a pretty darn good time because we are riding on the <i>top</i> floor of the train, and isn't that just so fun to be riding a vehicle that has more floors than our house?! </span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;">And it occurs to me that this is sometimes what most of parenthood requires of you: saying "yes", every day, to something we don't know all about, for which we are constantly, woefully unprepared (and thank God it keeps us humble!). It's saying "yes" to something that could potentially fall apart into one dung heap of an experience (and, ok, occasionally it really <i>does</i> feel like it's turning out that way) and yet constantly being met with miracle after miracle after surprising miracle. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is what we do, right? We see the odds stacked against us. We consider them. And we choose instead to believe that the risk is worth it, that there's something more that we cannot yet see, that we don't yet know, but that we cannot know unless we lay it all out on the table, dive all in. And we are met with miracles.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6AuVkfDwbVo/VwSOiGMdZvI/AAAAAAAAfOs/SqUgmZUCtx0hNtfLHG2LxsmtxLOzp88jA/s1600/IMG_5470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6AuVkfDwbVo/VwSOiGMdZvI/AAAAAAAAfOs/SqUgmZUCtx0hNtfLHG2LxsmtxLOzp88jA/s1600/IMG_5470.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rmVgvCvLuQo/VwSOm8LiuGI/AAAAAAAAfO4/a9skVDcLjusdyrDtSdTliZ1URr-_ypD6A/s1600/IMG_5476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rmVgvCvLuQo/VwSOm8LiuGI/AAAAAAAAfO4/a9skVDcLjusdyrDtSdTliZ1URr-_ypD6A/s1600/IMG_5476.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v-hOkKRePEc/VwSOwskij9I/AAAAAAAAfPI/3YmMXs0q-rMPOEY2_ulatyqVgt1NXmjtg/s1600/IMG_5489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v-hOkKRePEc/VwSOwskij9I/AAAAAAAAfPI/3YmMXs0q-rMPOEY2_ulatyqVgt1NXmjtg/s1600/IMG_5489.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8BgAFUVn1d8/VwSOlM8VR2I/AAAAAAAAfO0/cpuABshTbocDwJNsD9Yx8FpnV7b1OT7GA/s1600/IMG_5475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8BgAFUVn1d8/VwSOlM8VR2I/AAAAAAAAfO0/cpuABshTbocDwJNsD9Yx8FpnV7b1OT7GA/s1600/IMG_5475.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2306756507181750400.post-73931497917277125842016-02-16T03:00:00.000-08:002017-10-18T19:37:59.125-07:00Secret Family Pancake Recipe<i>Today I'm doing a little guest blogging over <span style="font-family: inherit;">at&nbsp;</span></i><span style="line-height: 27px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://trouveshome.com/">Trouvés</a></span></i></span><i><a href="http://trouveshome.com/"><span style="font-family: inherit;">&nbsp;Hom</span>e</a>, a lifestyle blog focused on simplicity and written by my friend Julia. Head on over there to find my family's delicious secret <a href="http://trouveshome.com/2016/02/16/secret-family-pancake-recipe-a-touch-of-saturday-morning-love-guest-post/">made-from-scratch pancake recipe</a>.&nbsp;</i><i>And, shameless plug, it's my birthday...so if you'd leave a little comment love, it would be like a birthday present to me.</i><i>&nbsp;</i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/---OkzRv78qs/Vz0IdmaZmsI/AAAAAAAAfbc/x1_ZKmGmIxs6PLBuE5bGxqwmD6LOtb4rQCLcB/s1600/PANCAKE%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/---OkzRv78qs/Vz0IdmaZmsI/AAAAAAAAfbc/x1_ZKmGmIxs6PLBuE5bGxqwmD6LOtb4rQCLcB/s640/PANCAKE%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />Do you find that the degree to which you enjoy&nbsp;a certain food can depend largely upon the memories you have attached to it? I do. A particular chicken pot pie recipe always reminds me of the friend who first brought it to us and joined us for dinner soon after one of our children was born. I never grow tired of the steak marinade that my mom uses for almost every birthday dinner she has made my dad. I've come to love the butter and brown sugar crusted sweet potato recipe that my husband's family use to make every Thanksgiving as he was growing up because I enjoy seeing the delight in his eyes when he serves two heaping spoonfuls onto his plate. <b>Making food as a way to show people you love them is as old as time itself.</b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />One of my favorite food memories is waking up early on Saturday mornings, completing the newspaper route (usually with my Dad), and coming back to enjoy buttermilk pancakes hot off the griddle...<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>(...head on over to&nbsp;</i><i style="line-height: 27px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://trouveshome.com/2016/02/16/secret-family-pancake-recipe-a-touch-of-saturday-morning-love-guest-post/">Trouvés Home</a> for the rest of the post and the recipe!)</span></i></div><br />Cathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12259884256790337021noreply@blogger.com0